


Tumblr Minifics

by Eglantine



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 56
Words: 25,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: A collection of drabbles/miniature fics originally posted on tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

Responses to a meme that prompted lines of dialogue. 

 

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” said Bahorel.

“What do you mean?” Jehan replied. “We still have a nice thing, but it has– has metamorphosed, it is a nice thing in an entirely new form. Why it’s– I daresay that process makes it nicer.” 

He meant all of this, wholeheartedly. If Bahorel said such a thing, it would be three-quarters impudence, bluffing his way out of the situation just to see if the other person would take it. But Jehan meant it, of course.

He referred to a wall hanging, the property of their host for a weekend party. Well, it had been a wall hanging, a sort of imposter medieval tapestry, but now somehow it had been transformed into a sort of tunic. It had armholes. (Who had made them? Could Jehan sew? Would Jehan, even under the influence of the considerable quantity of substances made available at this party, really endeavor to personally cut up and then wear a host’s wall hanging? Bahorel did not know.)

“That’s true,” Bahorel said. “It looks very nice.” 

\---

In answer to opening his bedroom window to see that Jehan Prouvaire was beneath, and it was he who had been throwing pebbles at the glass, Joly could think of no response beyond, “It’s three in the morning.”

“Is it,” Prouvaire said. His tone suggested he found this fact casually curious, the way one might respond to being told the Latin name and natural climate of a plant as one passed. “It’s only that I’ve just realized I’m very far from home, and I’d quite like to sleep now. May I come up?” 

“Well–” Joly was quite tempted to offer some complaints about the night air, the importance of interrupted sleep, the fact that he was sure he had a cold coming on and that would surely only be accelerated by these factors– but the fact of the matter was, he’d only gone to bed about an hour ago himself. “Yes, but do try not to stomp too loudly on the stairs. My neighbors are already very cross with me.” 

\---

“Just trust me,” Courfeyrac said. “If you miss one lecture, you won’t be thrown out.”

“I had Lesgle thrown out for missing one lecture,” Marius points out. “So you’ll pardon my caution. I just don’t think–”

“You may not think, but I know,” Courfeyrac interrupted. “Marius, it is springtime in Paris and, despite your attempts to prove the contrary, you are just barely twenty years old. So do come with me and act like it, just for one afternoon. And if you regret it, I’ll answer for it.”


	2. survival au

“Oh,” Bahorel said when Courfeyrac emerged to reveal his outfit. “Gone with respectable, have you?”

Courfeyrac laughed. “I have decided not to wear a doublet or a scarlet waistcoat, yes. You will note, I have even shaved, which was no mean feat, considering my present disadvantage.”

He referred to his right arm, at that present time bound up in a sling. But to have escaped the barricade with only a broken arm was good fortune Courfeyrac did not plan to question; given how bleak their situation had looked, he could have done much worse. Indeed, some had done much worse. Courfeyrac, who was given from time to time to such childish fancies as fair and unfair, though it rather hard that Marius, who no one had expected to come to the barricade at all, should have come away from it so badly.

But he had fought like a man possessed, Marius had: diving into every danger, taking every risk. But he had come away alive, thanks in no small part to the white-haired volunteer whom Courfeyrac had eventually recognized as the man they’d jokingly called Monsieur Leblanc, and who introduced himself as Monsieur Fabre. Bahorel, who had a nose for such work, had dug up at least one other name and at least two other addresses besides the one in the Rue de l’Homme Armé where he had directed Courfeyrac to call upon him with any news about Marius’s condition. But that was a mystery for another time.

Now, Marius lay in Courfeyrac’s flat in a fever, and Courfeyrac, who had only belatedly found the paper carefully folded into Marius’s pocket, had taken it upon himself to deliver this fact to Marius’s grandfather.

“I should have guessed he’d have a grandfather,” Courfeyrac sighed as Bahorel retied his cravat into something jauntier. “Such appalling innocence can only come of being raised by an old man. He’ll be a royalist, of course.”

“Of course,” Bahorel agreed. “That’s why you should have gone with red.”

“My aim is not to be thrown out until after I’ve delivered my message,” Courfeyrac replied. “But I appreciate your advice.”

Courfeyrac did not live far from the Marais, and the gloom and rain had at last begun to give way to a proper June, and though Courfeyrac was no longer in any great fear off arrest over his participation in the fighting, he told himself, in the spirit of Danton, that the greatest refuge surely lay in audacity. Would a wanted man walk the streets openly, without fear? So Courfeyrac walked to the home of Monsieur Gillenormand and presented himself to the porter there: Jean-Gaspard Courfeyrac, friend of Monsieur Marius Pontmercy. He was duly ushered into the presence of a startlingly old man, who fixed him with a dark look.

“So you’re that ingrate’s friend!” he declared. Courfeyrac suddenly wished he’d worn the red after all.

“I am,” Courfeyrac replied pleasantly. But then his tone grew more sober. “And I am come to bring news of him. Your grandson fought on the barricades some weeks ago—”

“Of course he did, that Jacobin! That fool!” Monsieur Gillenormand levered himself up from his seat with is cane. “And let me guess: he would have my word, my money, to see him pardoned, is that it? You tell young Monsieur Marius that if he wants anything of me, he’ll come ask for it himself.”

Courfeyrac could see through this plainly enough— the old man’s desire to have his grandson come to him in person— but the harsh tone in which he insisted on masking this gentle feeling quite eroded any pity Courfeyrac might have felt.

“I come because he cannot come himself, monsieur,” Courfeyrac replied. “He has been badly injured— if I may speak bluntly, he may yet die. While I can hardly think, from the greeting I have received here, that your presence will bring him much comfort, I think he would wish you to know. To come, if you can. My father and myself are very much at odds, but I know I would wish it for him, though there are times I cannot think why.”

Over the course of this speech, Monsieur Gillenormand had grown very pale. He sank back down into his chair, and Courfeyrac was suddenly concerned the old gentleman might faint. He started for the door to call to one of the servants, but all at once, Monsieur Gillenormand was on his feet and had beaten him to the task, tearing down the hall with really remarkable speed for such an old fellow, bellowing for his coat and his hat and his carriage to be made ready.

Courfeyrac, amused, was beginning to wonder if he was going to be left behind when the old man turned to him and barked, “Yes, yes, you too, you bloodthirsty Jacobin!”


	3. joly/lesgle sick fic

Whenever Lesgle spent a few days away from home (home being Joly’s flat), he always joked that he would surely return to a pile of ashes. And when he opened the door and was met at once with the smell of smoke, he was momentarily concerned that that was what had happened. But nothing seemed to be actively on fire, so he stepped inside.

Joly’s head popped suddenly out of the door to the bedroom. He did not look at all well: his face wan, his nose rubbed red, dark circles beneath his eyes— and he didn’t sound it either as he said, “Why, Bossuet! Oh— I meant to send word that you should stay away, I’m—” But a fit of coughing finished the sentence as effectively as any words.

“Have you lit something on fire?” Lesgle asked cheerfully.

Joly frowned. “Oh, can you still smell it? I can’t smell a thing. I was testing out a remedy I heard of, but then quite lost track of it on the stove, I’m afraid…”

“Thank goodness I wasn’t here,” Lesgle said. “It would have gone much worse. But—and forgive my putting such a question to a medical student— shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Yes, yes,” Joly said dismissively, finally stepping fully out of the bedroom and making his way back over towards the stove. He was in his dressing gown, a blanket draped around his shoulders. Lesgle fell into step behind him. There was something ominous and pungent bubbling in a pan on the stove. Lesgle could see the burned remains of the previous experiment left in another pan. He decided not to ask questions.

“Would you like some help?” he asked at last, as Joly tried to simultaneously stir his strange concoction and sneeze violently into his handkerchief. Joly nodded, and Lesgle took over the stirring. He couldn’t quite make out the mix of smells emanating from the pan, but they made his eyes water. “What are you going to do with this?”

“I’b goig to—” Joly paused to blow his nose. “I’m going to drink it.”

Lesgle looked down at the pan. Then back at Joly. Then back down at the pan. It bubbled feebly.

“Joly,” he said. “As a friend, I cannot permit you to drink this.”

“Oh, but one of my friends at school, he swears by it, he insists he—he—hachoo!—cannot imagine—huachoo!—any—any—ah—”

Joly once more at the mercy of his handkerchief, Lesgle seized the opportunity to remove both pots from the stove, cover them, and steer Joly back over to the sofa and sit them both down. When the sneezing fit finally passed, Joly slumped against Lesgle with a sigh.

“You will not drink that,” Lesgle said.

Joly sighed again. “Yes, alright.” He brightened and sat up. “But that’s alright, I’ve another idea. And you can help!”

He wobbled to his feet and set off for the bedroom before Lesgle could stop him.

“Now, I believe I have mentioned my theories about the relationship between the poles of the globe and the circulation of blood…”

“Yes, I believe it has come up once or twice.”

“Well! Why should it be limited to blood?” Joly asked eagerly (and snifflingly). “There are many fluids in the human body. May not congestion in the head be eased by correcting the relationship of the head and the poles while sleeping?”

“—are you suggesting we move your bed again?”

Joly beamed and scrubbed his nose with his handkerchief and nodded. “Yes!”

Lesgle folded his arms over his chest and gazed thoughtfully upon the bed. At last, he said, “Very well. But this is a scientific question, is it not? An experiment?”

“Yes, you might say so.”

“And I am no scientist, but I am sure it is common for scientists to put forward competing theories, to discover whose is most correct. Not unlike lawyers, if you will pardon the comparison.”

“Yes,” Joly said slowly. “That is correct. Where are you going with this?”

“If I help to move your bed,” Lesgle said. “I insist that I then be permitted to test some of my cold remedies upon you. For the sake of science.”

“Oh! Well, yes, of course! I am always eager to learn new theories.”

Lesgle nodded. “Good, then. Now stand back, and tell me how it should go.”

The bed in place, Joly (whose contributions largely consisting of giving directions and coughing) turned to Lesgle. “Well— it is your turn now. What shall we do?”

“I warn you I am quite a traditionalist,” Lesgle said. “First, you must get into the bed.”

Joly gave an exaggerated groan. “But if I lie still, I’ll have nothing to do but contemplate how wretched I feel.”

“That is an occasional side-effect,” Lesgle agreed solemnly. “But you have promised to test my methods, so I insist. I must collect some supplies– I won’t be a moment.”

As Lesgle slipped back out into the main room, Joly returned the spare blanket to the bed, shrugged off his dressing gown, and crawled beneath the covers. He could not deny that it was something of a relief to lie down, even if his head— aching already— at once began buzzing with a thousand worries. Did that cough sound too chesty? Was the room too cold? Too warm? What if he tried…

This line of thought was cut short by Lesgle’s return, his hands full. He tossed a small box towards Joly, which he fumbled and dropped onto the bed.

“Oh, lozenges,” he said when he picked it up again. “I was looking for these!”

“They were cunningly concealed beneath a book,” Lesgle said. “In any case, that is the first step of my remedy.” 

“And the next?” Joly asked.

Lesgle sat down on the edge of the bed and passed over a cup. Joly took a large sip, then coughed in surprise.

“I wasn’t expecting brandy!” he protested as Lesgle laughed. “I thought you’d have some strange northern concoction, probably made of cheese.”

“That’s only for really dire cases,” Lesgle said. “I’m sure you’ll have no need of that.”

“I suppose I should have guessed you’d turn to spirits,” Joly said with an exaggerated sigh.

“I beg your pardon,” Lesgle said. “I will have no mockery of my methods. These are closely kept family secrets. Everything I do now is precisely what my father used to do for me. Well, more or less.”

Lesgle reached over to fluff up the pillow, and Joly sank back against it, the cup clasped in his hands. He sniffled, and Lesgle shifted himself a bit closer, close enough for Joly to lean his head against Lesgle’s shoulder.

“Well?” Joly said. “Is this all?”

“No,” Lesgle said. “There is one final, essential step.” He held up the last object he had brought in with him: a book. “It has been found entirely crucial to recovery to have some dear friend sit beside you and read in a gentle sort of voice to distract you from your sore throat and stuffed-up head.”

“Yes, very well, you win,” Joly said, unable to keep from smiling. “Your remedies are far superior.”

“Fortunately, I would never gloat.”

“Is this really what your father used to do when you were a child?”

Lesgle smiled faintly. “Yes, it was.”

Joly nestled himself a little more snugly against Lesgle’s side. “Then I have no doubt at all that it will work.”


	4. bahorel in a kilt

“Oh,” Courfeyrac said when Bahorel stepped through the door. And then again, “Oh.” And at last, “Huh.” 

“Do you like it?” Bahorel gave his hips a little swivel, making parti-colored pleats sway around his knees. 

“Why are you wearing a skirt?”

“It’s a kilt,” Bahorel said patiently. “It’s quite different. Haven’t you read your Scott?”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac replied, standing and coming to get a closer look. “I’ve also read Shakespeare, and you’ll not soon see me in a doublet, either.”

“I won’t tell Jehan that you said that,” Bahorel said. “In Scotland it is a mark of national pride, of resistance to English tyranny.” 

“If a woman wore that out on the street, she would be arrested,” Courfeyrac said. 

“I may yet be,” Bahorel pointed out cheerfully.

Courfeyrac folded his arms over his chest and regarded the kilt thoughtfully for several moments. Then, at last, he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry. I cannot be seen with you in that thing. People will ask why on earth I let you out in it.”

“You let me!” Bahorel barked out a laugh. 

“Let,” Courfeyrac confirmed solemnly. “I value my reputation as a good and reliable friend. But this– people will say, why did Courfeyrac not do his utmost to prevent this? Why did he not light it on fire, tear it off, feed it to a passing carthorse?” 

“Your conservatism is showing, de Courfeyrac.” 

“Monsieur!” Courfeyrac gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in deep affront. Then he let the hand fall. “Well, never mind. I could never strike a man in a skirt.”


	5. star trek au

When Courfeyrac sat down at his station for the first time– way down in the bowels of the starship, at the auxiliary communications station– he couldn’t resist giving just a spin or two in his chair. No one was around, after all. 

Except someone was around, as it happened, just– very quietly: a red-shirted Vulcan looking at him with a slightly more bewildered variant on that species’ naturally skeptical expression. 

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Courfeyrac said by way of explanation. Then: “Lieutenant Courfeyrac.” 

“Lieutenant Pontmercy.” 

“Pontmercy?” Courfeyrac was still spinning back and forth, just a touch. Well, why did the chairs swivel at all if you weren’t supposed to swivel them? But now he stilled. “That’s not a Vulcan name.” 

“My father was not Vulcan,” Pontmercy replied. “And he desired that I should take his name, after the human custom.” 

“That is indeed the human custom,” Courfeyrac agreed. “One that I’ve done my best to ignore.” 

There was certainly something not-quite-Vulcan in his slightly nervous bearing. And his hair, though black, wasn’t sleek and straight like every other Vulcan Courfeyrac had seen– rather, it looked as if some effort had been made to force it to lie flat, but it was now rebelling back into its natural curls. 

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you. And you’re in communications?” he asked with a nod towards Pontmercy’s console.

“Not as such. I repair and maintain the translators.” 

“Then I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of one another!” Courfeyrac said, beaming– then had to try not to laugh. That, there: that flicker of faint alarm. Definitely not a very Vulcan expression.


	6. platonic intimacy meme

Responses to the platonic intimacy meme

To catch Courfeyrac unguarded was a remarkably rare feat. He always had a quip or comment to hand, always ended up seeming unruffled by even the most unexpected turns of events. 

But it could be done. As when Joly arrived a day early from a lengthy trip home and presented himself at the Café Musain: Courfeyrac leapt to his feet in undisguised delight and seized him by the shoulders and kissed both his cheeks.

\--

“And that–” Courfeyrac lifted his pen with a flourish. “That is the last! No more than we deserve, I suppose, daring to use a printer other than the illustrious house of Enjolras–” And a careless printer at that, one who had missed a very obviously stricken-out name (and Combeferre had gone back to the manuscript at least thrice to be certain of this) and included it instead, leaving repairs to be made by hand before the pamphlet could be distributed. By the hands of Courfeyrac and Enjolras specifically. What felt like all night long.

“I suppose we– oof, Enjolras, have a care–” But the sudden weight against his side wasn’t Enjolras using Courfeyrac to hoist himself up, but a presumably unintentional consequence of Enjolras having drifted to sleep right there where he sat. He slumped against Courfeyrac, his face pressed against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, his gold curls spilling into his face. Courfeyrac smiled and very carefully tucked a curl back out of the way. 

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to let you sleep there all night,” he said softly. “You look perfectly comfortable, but I would be in agony. I suppose you didn’t think of that, did you.”

But he could sit there for a minute or two more. 

\--

Joly couldn’t conceal a wince at how tightly the shoulders of his new coat pulled across Lesgle’s shoulders. Of course, the fact that he was standing behind Lesgle was what afforded him this excellent view, and so Lesgle could not see it. 

“I really don’t need to wear it,” Lesgle said.

“Of course you do,” Joly replied. “You can’t go to your exams in your own coat. I just wish you’d said something sooner!” 

“I wish I had, too,” Lesgle said. “But I was misinformed of the date– it wasn’t entirely my fault– but really, Joly, I’m happy to take one of your old ones.”

“Wear it,” Joly said. “I insist. Besides, on a new coat, it’ll be easier to repair whatever damage the fates may choose to inflict.” 

\--

Lesgle, drawing upon past experience, could well have described the moment in advance: it was only natural that when, as the culmination of a running joke about the startling imbalance of men and women at the ball that evening (who had ever been to a ball where the men outnumbered the women? shocking! unprecedented! surely the king’s fault, in some abstract sense! etc.), Grantaire insisted that he and Lesgle dance together to set a new fashion, the next set of songs would be of the most romantic tone and languid tempo. No rousing country dances for them, no: Guignon would never allow such convenience. 

Yes, he could have foreseen it all, and yet there they were. 

“You have an excellent pomade,” Grantaire murmured. “What a fine scent! And I’ve never seen hair so lustrous, so sleek– almost as if it isn’t there at all.” 

“You’re a better dancer than I expected,” Lesgle replied. “I always wondered how on earth you persuaded women to stand up with you, but it seems I was wrong to consider them noble martyrs, willing to risk their lives and shoes out of politeness, or perhaps pity.”

“Ah, dear Bossuet! You should have told me you were envious. I would have happily danced with you before now. You, too, are far more grateful than your luck would lead one to expect.”

“I’m unlucky, not clumsy,” Lesgle replied. “The unlucky must learn to be particularly graceful, in heart, mind– and feet.” 

\--

“–I’m going to stop you,” Lesgle said. Courfeyrac lowered the book into his lap.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, an edge of genuine affront creeping into his tone. “You are going to stop me? I, acknowledged by de Courfeyrac cousins in three provinces, as well as ladies across Paris, as the finest reader they have ever heard? I, known for my startlingly vast repertoire of voices? My remarkably facility in altering the speed, tone, and volume of my voice as the dramatic occasion demands? I, who have been told by genuine members of the Comédie-Française that I was born for the stage? You are going to stop me?” 

“Well,” Lesgle said, plucking the volume out of Courfeyrac’s hands. “I don’t mean to impugn the taste of the de Courfeyrac cousins or any Parisian ladies. It’s just– you make everyone sound so _southern_.”

\--

“Lord, what a crush!” 

Joly pressed close to Bossuet’s side by the crowd, laughed. “My grandmother always said that at parties.” 

“Your grandmother and I have many similarities, I’m sure,” Bossuet replied. “How much hair does she have? Does she use her cane to beat a path through the crowd? Because that seems to be the most promising route at present. How crowded the theatre is these days! They must stop letting this rabble of students and artists in. Look at that bald fellow, he has holes in his coat.”

“A travesty, to be sure,” Joly agreed. “The muses swoon. Oh, look!” 

A space had opened. Joly seized hold of Bossuet’s hand and darted towards it. With Bossuet stumbling behind (and, yes, a bit of help from his cane), he wended and wiggled his way through the crush, until they burst out at last onto the street. 

“I’m never going to an opening night without Bahorel again,” Bossuet said once they were finally free. “No one can clear an aisle like him.” 

“One of us must cultivate a greater air of bohemian menace,” Joly said. “I’m afraid it must be you.” 

“I have long thought I should try harder to pretend my poverty is, in fact, Romantic fancy,” Bossuet said. “As far as I can tell, if I replace my bad old waistcoats with some bad old doublets, that should do the trick. I’ll see if Jehan has some cast-offs.“

Joly laughed. “Oh, yes, because you two are of a size…” 

(They did not notice until they reached home that their hands were still clasped together.) 

\--

“Joly,” Combeferre said.

“Yes?” Joly replied. They’d given him a considerable quantity of brandy, so he swayed a bit as he turned to face Combeferre. 

“I appreciate your interest– and I entirely share it,” he said with deliberate patience. “But if you don’t stop trying to watch me do this, you’re going to make me break something. By accident,” he added, in case that wasn’t clear. 

“Yes, right, of course,” Joly said, straightening himself back on the chair. “It’s only that– I’ve never seen a joint put back in before– it’s such a useful thing to know, I’ve just never happened to have the chance…” 

“And when it’s not your own shoulder, you may look all you like,” Combeferre said, no longer quite able to hide his amusement. Between the pain and the brandy, Joly didn’t really seem to notice. Bossuet’s previous worry had entirely dissipated, and he had long since buried his face in his sleeve to hide his laughter. 

“You’re right, of course,” Joly agreed with a hiccup and a sigh. “Well, go on, then.”

\--

“One of these days, I’ll get a second mattress,” Courfeyrac said. 

“Just for me? I’m flattered, really,” Bossuet replied, demonstrating his profound gratitude by trying to steal a little bit more of the blanket. Courfeyrac was on the alert for such schemes, however, and did not budge. 

“I am thinking ahead,” Courfeyrac said. “As I am known for doing, of course– for planning, for considering. My legendary level-headedness and analytic nature has led me to conclude that this happy state of bed-sharing will not prove nearly so congenial come summer.”

“Wise,” Bossuet agreed solemnly. “Wise and true.”

“Mustn’t it be true, if it is wise?”

“Of course not. It helps, of course, but do we not proverbially find wisdom in folly?” 

“Folly, not falsehood– maybe a second mattress isn’t far enough, if I ever want to sleep again. Maybe a second flat is required. A second building.” 

“I am not Grantaire, I know when to be silent.” And he rolled over to prove it. “Good night, Courfeyrac.” 

“Good night, good eagle,” Courfeyrac replied, turning over as well. 

He lasted several minutes in that position, before he was forced to turn back over again: “I will own that a lie may reveal great truth– perhaps even wisdom– but I still cannot agree that folly and falsehood should be equated–” 

\--

“Just a liiiittle more…”

“How much pomade are you using?” 

“Well, your hair is proving curiously resistant to it.”

“Did I never mention? Yes, this entire experiment is hopeless. I can’t believe I forgot to say. Oh, wait–”

“Hush. I’m nearly– there! How is that?” 

Lesgle stood and went over to the mirror, Joly hurrying at his heels. They both stared. Lesgle’s sizeable bald spot was certainly– covered. Though whether the swooping, gravity-defying, heavily-pomaded means Joly had contrived to cover it were, in fact, better than simply being bald seemed up for debate. Even Joly, taking a second look at his work, seemed less than convinced of its success. 

“Well,” he said fretfully after a moment or two. “I’m sure it shan’t take too long to get it all out?”

\--

“Mm, no, I don’t think so,” Bahorel said, leaning against the door frame and folding his arms thoughtfully across his chest. Jehan let out a startled yelp and whirled around, the too-long sleeves of Bahorel’s silk dressing gown flapping as he turned. 

“I just wanted to see,” Jehan said, his cheeks turning a shade of rose that matched his waistcoat (and clashed horribly, both, with the dressing gown). 

“And I admire your originality of thought,” Bahorel said. “But really– trust me– no.” 

\--

It took some fumbling in the dark, but Grantaire’s hand found Lesgle’s and clasped it tight. Lesgle didn’t realize how much he had needed something to hold onto until their fingers were clasped together, and he squeezed back no less fervently. 

“I wasn’t crying, though,” Grantaire said as they stepped out of the theatre, shaking out his hand. “Obviously.”

“No,” Lesgle agreed. “Obviously not.”


	7. inexplicable fiddler on the roof crossover

Seeking Feuilly, Enjolras was informed that he was (the speaker believed) to be found at Joly’s. This was something of a surprise, but one that proved true: neither Joly nor Lesgle were there, but Feuilly was– and further company as well. The girl called Musichetta, who Enjolras did believe lived there, or at least frequently stayed there, was sewing in a corner with another girl, just as dark-haired and dark-eyed, in close conversation in a language that was not French.

Feuilly, too, was conversing eagerly with someone Enjolras did not recognize, a fellow workingman by the look of him, very skinny and no less eager, his mop of dark curls bouncing as he explained something or other to Feuilly in heavily accented French. 

“Good afternoon,” Enjolras said from the doorway, as all were too engaged in their conversations to notice that he had opened it. They turned as one, all four of them, and Feuilly’s smile only brightened as he strode across the room to greet him.

“Well, hello! I suppose it is odd to invite you into a room that isn’t mine, but I can’t think Joly or Lesgle would be troubled…”

“Do come in,” Musichetta said, rising, and the girl beside her rose as well. 

“This is a friend I have wished to introduce to you,” Feuilly said. “He lives not far from me, he is involved in work with some Poles that I know. This is Perchik– Perchik, Enjolras.” 

“And Hodel, my wife,” Perchik added, holding out a hand to the dark-haired girl, which she took. 

“You are Polish?” Enjolras asked.

“We are Russian,” Perchik replied. “I was a student in Kiev. I despised French then, I thought it the language of the aristocracy– I suppose I must be glad I learned it, now.” 

“They have been teaching me Russian,” Feuilly added gleefully. 

“Are you a student, monsieur?” Hodel asked, and though her French was slow and cautious, her gaze was direct. 

“I am a printer,” he said. 

“Ha!” Perchik cried at once, and clapped Feuilly on the arm. “That is a very good friend to have.” 

“And for more, much more than that,” Feuilly replied fervently. “Come, as I said, I have been hoping to introduce you. Let us go somewhere, so Joly and Lesgle do not return home to an entire salon. Musichetta, thank you for your patience with us.”

“No patience was required,” she said, and added something else, in the language she had been speaking before, that made Hodel laugh. They clasped hands, and then Hodel took her husband’s arm. 

“There is a place we know, not far away,” Feuilly explained as they stepped out the door. “It is called the Corinthe, it is– well, it is not good…”


	8. joly the beauxbatons ghost

The Beauxbatons halls were airy and beautiful, and she’d been so entranced by them when she first arrived three weeks ago. But they were not homey, and now her head ached and her throat hurt and she wished she was at home, and when she’d been coughing before one of her classmates had sleepily flung a pillow at her and told her to go to the infirmary already but the infirmary was even colder and more impersonal than the dorms and even if they weren’t homey if she couldn’t be home she’d rather be here. 

She buried her face in her pillow to try to muffle the sound as she started coughing again. And maybe, possibly, she started to cry just a little, because then she heard a soft voice say, “Oh, there, there.” 

She shot up straight, alarmed– and was only somewhat comforted by what she saw: one of the school ghosts, a sweet-faced young man who dressed in old-fashioned robes and always sounded like he had a stuffed-up head. Some of the students said that it was like when you went out in the rain and your grandmother said _you’ll catch your death_ – that he really had done that, died of a cold. 

“Are you meant to be in here?” she whispered, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. 

“Well, it seemed to me you could use a bit of help,” he said. She glanced nervously over at her classmates, but they were all asleep still. Perhaps that was a particular skill of ghosts, to only be heard by those they wished to hear them? 

“Oh, look at the state of these sheets!” the ghost cried. “No wonder you can’t sleep. Come, get up, let me fix them– oh, don’t forget to put on your dressing gown! Is that not what they call it anymore? Well, put it on, the night air, you know…” 

She obeyed, and stood bundled in her robe as the ghost carefully shook out her sheets and remade the bed, carefully smoothing every layer down, then turning the blankets back for her to crawl inside. The sheets were pleasantly cool where he had touched them. Once she was in bed, he tucked the sheets around her, with such a careful, serious manner that she couldn’t help but laugh. He smiled. 

“There, that’s much better, isn’t it?” he said. “Now, you’ll promise to go to the infirmary tomorrow, won’t you?”

“Yes,” she agreed meekly. The ghost smiled again.

“Good! I can see no point in going all that way tonight. You stay where you are for now.” He reached out a ghostly hand and laid it on her forehead. It was a cold, strange feeling, but it felt soothing against her aching head, and her eyes began to drift shut at last.


	9. irma/floreal

The sun has been down for hours, but that has done nothing to ease the hot closeness of the air.

“I’m sure I can walk,” Floréal says, her breath warm against Irma’s ear. “You don’t have to carry me, you really don’t.”

“It’s faster, and you’ll only make it worse if you walk on it,” Irma replies. Floréal’s arms are draped around her neck, her evening dress crumpled up around her knees, one shoe off to ease her twisted ankle. Oh, do we have to go already? the law student she’d come dancing with sighed when she showed him how it had started to swell up, and before she could say another word, Irma was there at her side, promising to see her safely home. 

“I’ll spoil your dress,” Floréal says. 

“I’ll find a way to fix it,” Irma says. “Or Musichetta can. Or it doesn’t matter.” 

“You’re so kind,” Floréal says.

Irma snorts. “Hardly.”

“But you are,” Floréal protests. “You always help. You left dancing for me, and I could tell you were enjoying yourself.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have enjoyed myself knowing you were sitting in the corner being ignored by that boorish Gascon.” 

Floréal buries her face against Irma’s shoulder to hide her laugh. “That’s not nice, you shouldn’t…”

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“But your tone… I like Gascons, they’re always such fun, and I like their accent.” 

They lapse into silence. It’s late enough to attract little notice– anyone out on the streets is happy enough to mind their own business in hopes that everyone else will do the same. Floréal lets out a faint sigh and leans her head against Irma’s, her chin resting on Irma’s shoulder. 

“Are you alright?” Irma asks. She feels Floréal nod.

“It hurts a bit, but– I’m alright. Tired, now.” 

“Nearly there.” 

“I won’t let you carry me up the stairs,” Floréal warns. “You’ll fall and we’ll both break our necks.” 

Floréal lives nearly at the top floor with a girl called Marie, and navigating the long, narrow stairs takes some time, their hands clasped together, Floréal leaning heavily on Irma’s shoulder. 

“Is Marie in?” Irma asks when they reach the door. 

“No,” Floréal replies. “She spends every waking moment these days with her new beau, which is splendid for me.” 

Irma eases Floréal onto the bed, and she flops onto her back with a sigh of relief. 

“Go, if you like,” she says. 

“I’ll see you settled,” Irma replies. She offers a hand, and Floréal takes it and pulls herself to sitting. Irma climbs onto the bed behind her and starts pulling the pins loose from Floréal’s hair. Floréal’s eyes drift shut as Irma drags her fingers through the soft brown waves, combing loose the twists and tangles, the tendrils sticking to the back of her neck. Then she moves on to the buttons down the back of Floréal’s dress.

“Can you stand a moment?” she asks, and with help, Floréal obliges, bracing one hand against the headboard of the bed. Irma finishes the buttons; the silk rustles loudly as Floréal slips the sleeves off her shoulders and lets it fall in a heap at her feet. 

“He should’ve brought me home.” she says as Irma begins unlacing her corset. “Shouldn’t he?” 

“Yes,” Irma says. “If he–” She stops.

“If he what?” 

“–cared about you,” Irma says. “Rather than just wanting a pretty girl to parade around.”

“You always say that’s all these students want,” Floréal says. “Why should I expect more?” 

“You laugh at me when I say that,” Irma points out.

Floreal shrugs (her shoulders, exposed, are faintly freckled). “Perhaps that was silly of me.” 

“No,” Irma says, and it comes out sharper than she means. “You ought to expect more than that.” 

Floréal looks over her shoulder in surprise. “Should I? What a romantic mood you’re in.”

Irma lowers her eyes. Floréal turns to face her. “And what else should I expect? Of someone who cares about me?”

Irma’s lips part, then she presses them shut again. 

Standing toe to toe, the top of Floréal’s head only just passes Irma’s chin. She tilts her head back to look up at her. 

“You’ll have to lean down,” she says.

Irma jerks back. “I didn’t help you so I could– I don’t expect some sort of– repayment for–”

“I know that,” Floréal says. She reaches out a hand beseechingly, trying to stop Irma’s retreat. “I know that.” 

Then she smiles, just a little. “You ought to expect more, too.” 

Then she laughs. “I’ve never seen you blush before!” 

Irma leans down.


	10. grantaire meets irma boissy

Monsieur Grantaire came to Paris to help see his son settled, which was rather more than the younger Monsieur Grantaire was expecting. While the elder Grantaire tutted over the state of the room– at that price! look at these walls!– the younger (petit-R, to his father’s grand-R, he amused himself by thinking) slouched in the doorway, wondering when his father would leave so he could commence the proper debauch it seemed to him a student’s life in Paris ought to consist of. 

A trio of girls, grisettes in their grey dresses, passed by the open door. A perfectly matched set they were, one fair, one dark, one red-haired. The blonde caught Grantaire’s eye, then looked away. 

“Hm,” his father said before the girls had quite passed. Grantaire hadn’t realized his father had noticed them. “Well, I suppose the upper floors are always cheap.” 

The girls were out of sight now, but on the creaking floor, he could hear their footsteps– or the footsteps of one of them, at least– falter. Oh good, he thought. Making friends with pretty girls already.

When his father left at last, he bounded out the door and nearly bowled down the blonde, the same from before. 

“Very sorry,” she said. She couldn’t be any older than he was, he thought. “I’ll try to keep to the upper floors.”

“Wasn’t me who said that,” he protested. And, as she turned away, he blurted out, “Wait!” 

She stopped. “What?”

I don’t know anyone, and I don’t know where to go, and you seem to know what you’re doing. 

“–I’m studying painting, you know. I shall need models someday, I could make you famous. You ought to cultivate my friendship now.” 

“Seems like a bit of a gamble,” she said. 

“I’m Jean-Luc Grantaire.”

“I’ll consider it.” 

“You’re meant to say your name, now.”

“I’m considering that, too.” 

“Irma!” came a cry from just outside, and the blonde scowled. Grantaire grinned. 

“I believe your friends are calling. I’m sure we’ll speak again.” 

“Mmm,” was all she said before she turned away.


	11. joly/bossuet fluff

“Lower– you have to hold it a little lower–”

“What do you mean? I can see it.”

“You can see it, but you may perhaps have noticed that I am not quite as tall as you.”

Joly sighed and readjusted the mirror he held. Bossuet cocked his head and leaned closer to the mirror on the wall. He ran a hand over the back of his head, now visible.

“Yes, it really is a retreat from both sides, isn’t it,” in a tone more of curious amusement than sorrow. He combed his fingers through the thin band of curls that separated his increasingly receding hairline in the front, and the expanding bald spot in the back. “Hold firm, my friends. At least until I convince Genevieve to let me take her out.”

“That may be years,” Joly noted, not unkindly. Bossuet laughed. “Besides, what does it matter, a bit of hair more or less? It’s your wit that will impress anyone you meet, my dear.” 

“Oh?” Bossuet said. “You’ll give me yours, then? Let me make a wig of it? You’ve got quite enough hair for two, it seems to me. And if it doesn’t matter…” 

“Oh, um.” Joly pushed a hand self-consciously through his own thick mop of hair. “Well, you know… it was really your wit I was thinking of, specifically, not just anyone’s wit would have such– such power…” 

Bossuet laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “A joke, dear one. But only you would be kind enough to take it seriously.” 

“Yes, well.” Joly, cane out of reached, rubbed the bridge of his nose with his knuckle. “I knew that, of course.”


	12. grantaire and irma

“And then she said– Floréal said–”

“No one calls her that but you, you know,” Irma interrupted. 

“What?” said Grantaire. He had been gesticulating quite broadly– as his speech and gesture were cut short, a bit of wine sloshed over the edge of his cup and onto the table. 

“No one else calls her that,” Irma repeated. “I know who you’re talking about, but that’s not what she’s called.” 

“It’s what she ought to be called,” Grantaire replied. “The very embodiment of spring and loveliness! I shall call her Flora, Antheia, Pomona–”

“You must take it up with your friend Jehan,” Irma replied with an idle flick of her hand. “It’s he who stirred up this passion for the medieval in her, and it’s he who called first called her Isabeau. And as everyone else has quite readily accepted it, we must conclude that, once again, no one agrees with you.” 

“You, too, are misnamed,” Grantaire said. “You have none of the Germanic softness your name suggests. You shall be Pierrette, Petra– a woman of stone.” 

“Hmm.” Irma dabbed at the spilled wine. “Well, good luck with that.”


	13. joly and bossuet in the rain

When Joly and Bossuet traipsed in, they were so sodden, they left little puddles of footprints with every step. Courfeyrac happened to be over: he ducked at once into the bedroom to fetch a blanket, or perhaps some dry shirts. Enjolras pulled out chairs.

“He didn’t show,” Bossuet said, shucking off his overcoat with a squelching sound and sinking into the chair.

“Bossuet made us put away the umbrella,” Joly said as he pulled a soaked handkerchief out of his pocket and regarded it mournfully. Enjolras pulled a dry one out of his pocket and offered it. “He said it looked too bourgeois, said we were frightening him away.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did.”

“You should see that wind, though!” Bossuet said, turning back to Enjolras, who had been about to interrupt to gently steer them back to the topic at hand. “No umbrella could survive. Maybe no sane man, either. I don’t think his failure to appear should be cause for concern.”

“Likely not,” Enjolras agreed. “He knows how to reach you.”

“And we’ll tell you if he does,” Joly said. “I envy his sensible companions, who surely told him to just stay home.” And for punctuation, he blew his nose loudly.

“Yes, we’ve resolved between us,” Bossuet said solemnly. “We will only participate in future treason in the sun, please.”


	14. irma/musichetta

The present subject of universal speculation was a handkerchief which Bahorel swore up, down, and center had been leant to him by Irma Boissy, and which bore in the corner the initials MD.

Everyone naturally concluded that this was, at last, the solution to the mysterious question of who the prettiest boot-stitcher in Paris deigned to allow to share her bed. Speculation ran rampant: Marcels and Maurices hunted down and interrogated. For a brief, horrifying moment, Bahorel allowed himself to consider the horrifying possibility that the D was, in fact, a partly-unravelled P. But no, he was assured, the stitching was too tidy, the alignment too perfect: MD it was. 

*

“But at least people have been complimenting the embroidery,” Musichetta said, holding another handkerchief up to the light and squinting critically at it. MD, it said, nestled in a tangle of embroidered ivy.

“My entire room is draped in your handkerchiefs,” Irma complained. “What kind of person practices embroidery with only her own name? Use my name, then it won’t matter when you leave them all in my room.” 

“Let people talk,” Musichetta said flippantly. “They’re off on the wrong track anyway. People are starting to say Bahorel was lying about getting it from you in the first place. It’s all in good fun.” 

“I don’t like being talked about,” Irma said. And maybe it came out sounding a bit petulant, but she did mean it. Musichetta sank down onto the bed next to her and slid her arm around Irma’s waist. 

“It’s because you are friends with such horrid, talkative people,” Musichetta said, nuzzling up against Irma’s neck. 

“Horrid,” Irma agreed, tracing her finger along Musichetta’s collarbone, then downwards, then hooking it in the scoop of Musichetta’s collar. Musichetta tilted her face upwards, and Irma ducked her head to meet it in a kiss. 

“We’ll think about something else,” Musichetta said. And she tossed the handkerchief aside.


	15. genderswapped bini

In odd contrast to her big, gangly frame, Lesgle had rather small hands, delicate and pale. As with everything that could not be amended, she did not trouble herself much about it.

“And who will notice my hands, anyway?” she asked, which Joly thought a fair point, and one ultimately borne out: people they met saw men’s clothes on a tall, outspoken person– a tall, outspoken person with no hair, no less– and considered the matter no further. 

But God bless greatcoats, Joly thought, for their help in that respect– and the fashion for waspish waists and high cravats and puffed chests and rounded hips and padded shoulders.

And Joly, who had a mind that could not brush aside details, that seized upon a scent like a hunting hound and would not let it go– she noticed Lesgle’s hands, how she gestured with them, how they came to rest on top of her knees, small and white against her twice-turned black trousers. 

(Because, Joly thought, the answer to who will notice always seemed to be Joly.)

(Or at least when Lesgle was the object.)


	16. irma models for grantaire

“Well, what do you say?” 

“What do I say to what?” Irma asked, shifting in her chair and folding her arms over her chest.

“To letting me paint you,” Grantaire replied. “I need a model, you see.”

“A good try,” Irma replied. “But everyone knows Gros threw you out of his studio last week.” 

“Mostly, but not strictly true,” Grantaire replied. He gestured towards the empty seat opposite Irma, and she sighed, then nodded. He pulled it out, spun it around, and seated himself on it backwards, his elbows braced against its back. “If I can bring him a painting– an actually completed one– an actually completed, technically competent one– he might take me back.” 

“So paint some fruit, if that’s all he’s after,” Irma replied. “I’ll buy you an apple.” 

“But Irma!” Grantaire cried. “When have you ever known me to settle for good enough? When, tell me, has Grantaire been known not to strive, not to aspire?”

Irma snorted. 

“Apples bore me,” Grantaire said. “I decided that perhaps if my subject were more inspiring, I would find within me the deep wellsprings of artistic motivation. And who could fail to be inspired by your beauty, Mademoiselle Boissy?” 

“Not everyone shares your preference for blondes,” she said. “Will you pay?”

“The promise of becoming a celebrated model isn’t payment enough?”

“No. And you’ll never finish the painting, anyway.”

“–very well. I accept.”

“You accept? I accept.”

“How very accepting we are.” 

“I’ll come to you tomorrow,” Irma said. “Now leave me be, will you?”


	17. courfeyrac the lawyer

Seeing Bahorel enter the cafe, Courfeyrac scooped up his hat and attempted to go. But Bahorel was quicker, making his way to their table in what seemed to be the mere blink of an eye and clapping a friendly hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder– a friendly hand that also happened to force him back down into his seat. 

“And where are you off to in such a rush?” he asked. 

“Oh, I, uh–” Courfeyrac looked frantically to Bossuet, who offered nothing but a shrug.

“I cannot possibly come up with a lie for you,” Bossuet said. “I don’t know the truth, and the odds are good that in lying, I would accidentally stumble upon it.” 

“Did we quarrel? I am engaged in a number of them at present, it is possible I have lost track.” 

“No… no.” Courfeyrac appeared to make a silent resolution, and straightened. “I cannot face you, Bahorel. I cannot disgrace you with my company.” 

Bossuet and Bahorel exchanged glances. 

“And why?” Bahorel asked. 

Courfeyrac’s courage seemed to fail him, and the words came out in an inaudible mumble. 

“Once more,” Bossuet prompted. “This time with vowels.” 

“I passed my exams.”

The words rang in the silence that followed. Bahorel took a step back, and Courfeyrac sprang to his feet, hands clasped in supplication.

“I didn’t intend to. The illustrious Monsieur de Courfeyrac began making rumblings about how if I was not intending to continue my studies, perhaps I had best return to Provence, and– well, I had to appease him somehow, but I never thought, never dreamed–”

“I cannot speak to you,” Bahorel said, continuing to back away. “I fear the contagion. I will speak to Joly about preventative measures, then perhaps, gradually, I can continue to share your company.”

“To be fair,” Bossuet said. “If your only plan was to avoid him, this has had the same effect. At any rate, take a seat, drown your sorrows. I, for one, am not above drinking with a lawyer. So long as he pays, of course.”


	18. jehan and bahorel give a makeover

“If only your hair were longer,” Jean Prouvaire said, stroking Joly’s hair in a thoughtful manner that Joly found simultaneously appealing and unsettling. “Had we but world enough, and time–”

“Well, we don’t,” Bahorel broke in. “So we’ll have to look to the things we can improve. First, trousers. Second, jacket. Third– well, have you ever tried curling your hair?”

“Er, yes, once,” Joly said. “It was… unsuccessful.”

“Growing a beard?” 

“Ditto.” 

Bahorel sighed. “This might be hopeless.”

“Don’t say that!” Prouvaire protested, while Joly looked faintly panicked. “Musichetta is a singular woman, and surely can appreciate an unconventional sense of fashion. Have you considered, for example, something tending towards the medieval– yourself the courtly lover, she the unattainable lady–”

“Er– you know, I really–” Joly began, attempting to stand, but Bahorel and Prouvaire each put a hand on one shoulder and forced him back into his chair.

“Oh, no,” Bahorel said cheerfully. “You asked for our help, and what kind of friends would we be if we didn’t make sure you got it?”


	19. the cross of july

As the back room of the Musain cleared at the end of the meeting, Feuilly drifted over to the table where Combeferre was still hunched over a bit of paper, scrawling down some final notes and plans. Combeferre held up a hand in a ‘just a moment’ gesture, so Feuilly took a seat. 

“Was it the soldier?” he asked when Combeferre set down his pen.

“Was it the– oh.” Combeferre sat back in his chair with a faint laugh. “You too, then?” 

Feuilly gave a short nod. “And as it’s hardly– that is, no one knows me, so I couldn’t think how– but then I remembered that man, that officer that you and I helped carry to safety, and I held him as you patched him up. And I remember he asked our names– demanded them, I remember that, because I did not particularly care to give it, but I did, and–”

“Yes,” Combeferre said. “He was of higher rank than we guessed, it seems, or maybe he was promoted for his good service in our new king’s behalf.” The title drips with irony. “But I inquired– it seemed he was appointed to the committee for handing out the honor, and insisted our valiant behavior merited recognition.”

“The Order of the Cross of July,” Feuilly said. “Really, a more apt title than they could know. We must swear an oath to the king.”

“Only if we accept it,” Combeferre pointed out.

“But how will it seem if we do not?” Feuilly said. “For myself, I’m not troubled if I am considered suspicious, but if something so stupid should lead questions back to the whole group– and even worse, to the other groups like us–”

“Yes,” Combeferre said, pushing his spectacles up into his hair and running his hands over his face. “It had occurred to me. I don’t mind scrutiny, but it seems a rather… wasteful reason to draw attention.” He paused. “Arago is to receive one, you know.”

“And Chodźko,” Feuilly sighed. “Not that it makes it better. I will not swear loyalty to the king and his charter, Combeferre. I do not think that is what you are suggesting, but– I will not.” 

“No,” Combeferre agreed gently. “Nor I.”

“Have you told the others?” Feuilly asked. 

“No,” Combeferre admitted, and Feuilly nodded– nor had he. “I admit, I didn’t want to raise the problem before I had some idea about a solution. And I will come to one… though I haven’t yet.”

“But we will not swear,” Feuilly said again. “For the mere sake of safety and quiet.”

“Safety and quiet, what a novel concept.” Combeferre smiled. “Well. Between us, we will think of something.”


	20. christmas party

It was nearly Christmas, and the meeting had devolved into more merriment than usual: spice wine, some cakes, even a song or two. After what seemed to him a polite and inconspicuous interval, Enjolras began quietly gathering his things together. He’d thought no one was paying any mind, but then there was Joly, sliding into the seat opposite. 

“You’re off, then?” he asked. And before Enjolras had to try to explain, he went on, “It’s really not your idea of a perfect evening, I know. It was good of you to stay.”

“My pleasure, of course,” Enjolras said, and it was true. He could enjoy watching his friends partake in pleasures in which he had no interest, though there were times it felt like it had watching mass in Latin as a child: nearly understanding, knowing all the verbs, say, but missing the adjectives required to make the point perfectly clear.

“I wish I could be as abstemious as you,” Joly said, wiping a drip off the edge of his glass with his thumb. “You’re never ill. I always intend to…”

“I think you no one would wish you any different than you are,” Enjolras said.

Joly ducked his head and smiled. “Oh, well, Musichetta says I’m never on time…” He laughed. “Well, listen– I’m very glad you did stay. Everyone is quite absorbed in that cake at the moment, if you wanted to slip away now.”

Enjolras nodded his thanks, and Joly watched him go with a smile before rising and calling out, “I hope you haven’t already eaten all of that!”


	21. battle of hernani

After the battle, the shuffled home leaning heavily on one another. Bahorel had his handkerchief pressed to his bloodied nose; a long swathe had been half-torn off of Prouvaire’s cloak and trailed on the ground behind him. 

“So– I forgot to ask– what did you think of the play?” 

“Couldn’t hear a word!” Bahorel reached across to straighten Prouvaire’s slipping cloak on his narrow shoulders. “Shall we return tomorrow?” 

“Oh, without question.”


	22. lesgle and feuilly

“You’re really too kind– I know that I’ve said it–”

“Yes,” Feuilly replied, looking faintly amused. “In fact, you have. And I have said: it is no trouble.”

“Well, of course it’s trouble, it’s always a world of trouble to move house– I have learned this from extensive experience– and as the friend kindly helping, you don’t even have the benefit of a new place to live at the end of it,” Lesgle said. 

“But I have the benefit of a new neighbor,” Feuilly said, nodding towards the thin wall that now separated their rooms. “And that is a great benefit indeed.” 

Feuilly did not say that it could hardly be considered trouble to help move as few belongings as Lesgle had: even Feuilly had more, though (he thought) he had lived in the same little room for several years now, and had thus had time, perhaps, to accumulate more things than the continually-relocating Lesgle. 

“It is, isn’t it?” Lesgle said cheerfully. “And to demonstrate how very lucky you are, do let us go out tonight– but one drink, I know you have to work in the morning, we will be the picture of responsibility.” 

“Oh– I couldn’t.”

“Of course you can. I may even insist.” 

“But you–” Feuilly snapped his mouth shut, felt his cheeks growing hot. Lesgle raised an inquiring eyebrow, and Feuilly felt compelled to resume: “I was under the impression that you were forced to move due to– er–”

“Lack of funds?” Lesgle supplied. 

“–right,” said Feuilly. “So I could never– I wouldn’t want–”

“And what would I spent the money I do have on, if not wine with a friend?” Lesgle asked. 

“Well– not to be– er, your rent? Or next month’s, just in case?”

“Oh, no doubt you’re quite right,” Lesgle said cheerfully. “But I have never been able to think about money that way. When I have it, I can’t help but make use of it. Even when I was younger, or right after my father died, and I was exceedingly careful and saved and invested everything just like I was told– it all came to nothing anyway. So I have decided that I would rather spend it while I may, on things to make my friends and myself happy. Because if I don’t, it is all but certain it will fall out of my pocket, or the bank will burst into flames.” He grinned. “It is me, after all.”

“Oh–” (Feuilly thought of his own savings– two months’ rent, laboriously accumulated for emergency or illness; the pool dedicated to new books, new pamphlets; the recently-depleted new shoe fund.) “If you– I’d really rather– if you insist–”

Lesgle beamed. “Why, I do.” And after a small pause, added, “I know very well it is only thanks to my excellent friends I could go on as I do. If you like, think of it as an investment of a different kind.” 

“You must buy our friendship?” Feuilly asked, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, you know, in these wicked days…” Lesgle said with a melodramatic sigh. He slung an arm over Feuilly’s shoulders and steered him towards the door.


	23. marius and joly

When Marius woke up (late, after a long night in Rue Plumet) he realized that someone who was not Courfeyrac was sitting on the other side of the room. He rubbed his eyes. The person sneezed. 

“Joly?” he asked blearily. 

“Quite,” Joly replied, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief. “I do hope I didn’t wake you.”

Marius sat up. “What are you doing here?” 

“Oh, Courfeyrac and Bahorel are about some– uh, business– and I do believe I’m coming down with a cold, so I volunteered to stay here and keep an eye on things until they return.” Marius realized that Joly was not sitting on a chair, as he had sleepily assumed, but a low stack of boxes. As he spoke, Joly gave the top box a pat. “Are you well? I was sure we’d wake you with all our banging about.”

“Oh– yes, just, uh– out late,” Marius mumbled, eyes lowered. 

“Yes, that’s what I hear,” Joly said. He arched a brow in what was doubtless meant to be an insinuating manner, but with his round, boyish face, it mostly made him look confused. “Courfeyrac and Bahorel were saying you wander in at all hours. It’s really not healthy, you know, to expose oneself to the night air so frequently. I hope you wear a better coat than that when you go out? –and really, health aside, I hope for her sake you wear a better coat than that.”

“There is no– it’s not– um…” He trailed off. 

“Whatever you say, of course,” Joly said. He sneezed again and sighed. “I suppose we’ll all find ourselves out in the night air in the next few days. What a miserable, wet June this is.”

“Oh, will you?” Marius asked, without much real interest. Joly waved a hand (the other stayed firmly on top of the boxes).

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Joly said. “Courfeyrac will explain it all, I’m sure. Or if not, I daresay it will become clear soon enough.” At the sound of feet clattering up the stairs, he turned. “And that will be them. We’ll be out of your way in no time at all.” He stood, then paused and turned back to Marius with a small, encouraging smile and added, “And really, I do wish you the best of luck with her.”


	24. extreme secrecy

‘One London spy reported that the United Englishmen and Sons of Liberty, who were drilling at night in the garden of the Seven Stars at Bethnal Green, had ‘a rule to begin singing as soon as they had done business, that people might have less suspicion of them and might think it a club.’’  
-from In These Times, Jenny Uglow

 

“Then if you can see to delivering them to the printers, Prouvaire?” (Prouvaire gave a short nod ‘yes’) “–that takes care of the last of it,” Enjolras concluded with satisfaction. There were murmurs of assent around the table, then silence fell upon the back room of the Cafe Musain. 

Feuilly cast an uncertain glance at Joly, who let out a sigh. 

“Do we really have to–” Feuilly began. 

“Yes,” Enjolras said sharply. “I think it’s a very good idea. The more means by which we can divert suspicion, the better.”

Joly looked helplessly to Bahorel, who beamed and shrugged and seemed entirely unperturbed by his distress. “You heard the captain.” 

“Now, Bahorel, I’m really not…”

“In that case, do we not have to do it?” 

“No.” 

Another silence.

“Well. Someone has to start,” Courfeyrac said.

“Do take the lead,” Joly said. “This was your idea, after all.” 

“Er,” Courfeyrac said. 

“This is just getting silly,” Combeferre said. He took a breath, then began pounding out a rhythm on the table and began to sing at the top of his lungs: “Passant la rue Saint-Honoré–” 

And they all, with more and less reluctance (in Enjolras’s case, knowing less rather than more of the words and tune) joined in.


	25. feuilly

The room was cheap, so he couldn’t complain, but it didn’t get much light. The angle of the window was wrong, relative to the buildings around it, and so for quite some time Feuilly just accepted that that was how things would be. He rose early and returned late anyway, he had long budgeted for candles. 

He took the room in early fall. For a few days in winter, when he was knocked flat with a fever and stayed home, he thought he woke midday to see the sunlight glinting mad patterns on the wall– but he decided later he’d likely dreamed it. 

Then it was summer– a Sunday in early summer and he had no work that day and when he woke there it was: one perfect, bright sliver of sunlight, cutting a line across the middle of the room. 

(It was exactly wide enough to fit one book, and that is what he put there, scooting along the floor with it and reading by it until the angle of the sun made it start to climb up the wall, and then it disappeared.)


	26. cosette and the convent girls

Mlle. Talbot threw down her stick in frustration. The other girls watched it fall nervously: it had been a carefully chosen stick, the ground scrupulously scoured to find it, and others, that were long enough and straight enough and strong enough for the purpose. Only a very certain kind of stick was suited to being used as a sword, after all.

“It isn’t fair,” Mlle. Talbot huffed. After a few more years in the convent, she would lose her English accent, but she hadn’t yet. “I don’t want to play Talbot.”

“But you have to,” explained Mlle. Bouchard with extreme patience. “You are called Talbot. He is probably your ancestor.”

“But you always get to play Jehanne. I want to play her.” 

Mlle. Bouchard was aghast. “Jehanne d’Arc cannot be English.” 

“I will be Talbot,” Cosette offered, holding out the flower-crown she had made. “And she can be the Dauphin.”

“The Dauphin cannot be English, either!”

“Psst!” Mlle. de Saint-Aulaire hissed. Their heads all swiveled round to see the approaching Mother des Anges, who had presumably been drawn by the sight of the girls brandishing stout looking sticks at one another. All dropped their sticks at once.

“And what are we playing over here?” Mother des Anges inquired with a faintly suspicious tone. The girls, with the exception of Mlle. Bouchard, exchanged guilty glances. 

“We were discussing the lives of holy martyrs,” she replied at once, with a serene, innocent expression. Mother des Anges did not look like she believed this at all, but she nodded warily and turned away. Mlle. Bouchard immediately took up Mlle. Talbot’s discarded stick and thrust it into her hand. 

“Now. You must be Talbot because you are called Talbot already, you must be the Dauphin because you are skinny, Mlle. de Saint-Aulaire is Dunois because she asked first, and I am Jehanne because plainly none the rest of you understand how these things must work. Now let us begin.”


	27. j/b/m fluff

“And then– oh damn–”

“You’re telling this story so badly,” Musichetta said placidly. She was curled up in Joly’s lap, her head nestled against his shoulder. His ran his long, elegant fingers idly through her curls. Lesgle lay on his stomach, endeavoring to toast a bit of bread; this was the third that had caught fire while he was distracted in his attempt to tell a story. It was very late: there was no good reason not to be in bed and asleep, save that they were not; they were ensconced in front of the fire, sprawled on a tangle of blankets on the floor.

“And how would you know?” Lesgle asked. “You aren’t even listening. You’re asleep.”

“I’m listening very closely, just with my eyes closed,” Musichetta said.

“Perhaps he’s building suspense,” Joly offered. “That is the key to a good ghost story, is it not? The proper rationing of suspense. At every pause, I think– oh, did our hero’s toast catch on fire, too? But no! An even greater horror lies in store. It is a very clever form of misdirection, I think.” 

“Thank you, Joly. It is, I suppose, only to be expected that a mere woman cannot possibly appreciate the art of ghost stories.”

“I know all about ghosts,” Musichetta protested, still not opening her eyes. “There was a ghost in my grandmother’s house. I could never get it to talk to me, but I always hoped it might.”

“There then, that is the problem. You are too brave for us. You do not possess the proper fear of ghosts.”

“Or you’re just telling it badly.” 

“Is this the one where he discovers, at the end, that he is hearing noises from a room that was walled over decades before?” 

“…yes. Yes, that was indeed the very dramatic reveal I was building to, thank you.” 

“…would you like me to toast that for you?”

“Yes, please.” 

Lesgle sat up and handed the toasting fork over to Joly, who wiggled out from under Musichetta. She quite contentedly shifted over to rest her head in Lesgle’s lap. Whenever he tried to play with her hair, it became hopelessly tangled, so he contented himself with tracing little spirals on her shoulder, where her nightgown had slipped down.

“What would you have said to it?” Joly asked after a few moments, his gaze intently fixed on the toast. 

“Don’t know,” Musichetta murmured. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead, really.”

“Carry her to bed, Lesgle, it’s far too drafty to sleep on the floor, she’ll catch cold–”

“I tell you, I am not asleep.” 

Lesgle grinned. “Right, well, in that case, let me try again. Alright, once upon a time… a very long time ago…”


	28. j/b/m angst

This time, at least, Joly really was ill. Three days of fever had not broken yet, and even the most devout cynic, a person most mistrusting of Joly’s hypochondria could not argue that it was only in his head. 

“Have you slept much at all?” Musichetta asked when she came by on the third day. 

“Not much, but it’s been very restful even so, I assure you,” Lesgle said. “I’ve scarcely moved an inch.” 

“Well, as long as you’re awake enough to be facetious.” She perched herself on the edge of the bed. She pressed her hand to Joly’s forehead, then his cheeks. “Oh, it hasn’t gone down at all, has it.” 

“I thought I might try and find a more precise way of gauging,” Lesgle said, leaning closer. “Crack an egg on his head, see how long it takes to fry.”

“You are in good spirits,” she muttered. 

“Only endeavoring to keep up yours, fair lady,” he replied. 

“I’ve no need of it, thank you,” she said. “I will be cheerful when I have cause. For the present, I don’t think a bit of worry is amiss.” 

“Well, a bit–”

“Quite a bit,” she said sharply. Joly shifted, and the rest of her retort died on her lips. She stood carefully, and gestured for Lesgle to follow her into the living room. She shut the bedroom door cautiously, quietly, and then whirled on him. “You may have noticed your best friend is quite poorly.” 

“Is he? Oh, no wonder he has not come carousing with me these past three days.” 

“You may also notice I’m not laughing,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “Really, I had thought better of you. You really will take nothing seriously.”

“Oh, but you do love me anyway, don’t you?” 

“I will strike you,” Musichetta said, the concentrated steadiness of her tone only drawing attention to how near her veneer of calm was to shattering. “If you say another word, I swear I will.” 

A pause.

“I had rather–” 

Lesgle reeled back, his hand flying to his cheek. He stared at Musichetta. “You actually did it.”

“Yes,” she hissed. “I swore, didn’t I?” 

Lesgle sank down onto the sofa. “You hit quite hard.”

“You’re a child.” 

He sat in silence, rubbing his hand contemplatively over his cheek. Musichetta let out a sound of disgust and turned away. 

“I fell out of the habit, you see,” he said quietly. She paused. “Of saying what I mean. So you see, it feels neglected, my poor sincerity… and I find sometimes when I need it, it will not come.”

She sighed. She came back over and sat down beside him. He offered a feeble smile.

“You know, if you were a man, I would call you out for that– for implying I do not care for him.” 

“I do not intend to humor you,” she said. “Stay here and get some rest for a bit.” 

“And when I wake? Pistols at dawn?” 

“No, my dear, too risky– you might survive.” 

Lesgle laughed, then scrubbed his hands over his face. Musichetta knew well enough the look of a man trying not to cry (though she had never seen it on him before, had never dreamed that she would), and knew when to turn away. She started back towards the bedroom and said, without glancing back, “I will wake you if there is any change.”

“Ah, yes–” He took in a gasping kind of breath. “Please do.” 

She hesitated at the doorway and turned back. He had already curled himself up on the sofa, his back to her. Joly would go to him anyway, she knew– and if it were Joly standing in her place, she thought, very likely that would be the right thing to do. But she just said again, “I’ll wake you, my dear.”


	29. levellers AU

Everyone was damp and exhausted and it was past dark by the time they arrived in Burford. After no small degree of confusion and chaos they found themselves billeted in a barn, which did little to improve their cold and sodden condition, but at least it was a roof under which to rest.

Jean Prouvaire declared his intention of staying up until they received word of the plans for the next day’s march, then promptly fell asleep, looking very pale and very young, curled up in his cloak. Grantaire slept sans prologue, sprawled out near the door and snoring.

Lesgle draped his cloak over Joly, whose protest was cut short by an explosive sneeze. Lesgle, his point thus proven, smiled and said, “I believe you need it more, my friend.”

Their corner was shared by a dazed-looking Marius. Marius often looked dazed, in truth, but he seemed particularly so now, or perhaps ever since they had left Salisbury.

Feuilly sat with his back braced against the wall, bone-weary and unable to sleep. He turned his hat over and over in his hands. He took out the sprig of rosemary he wore tucked in the band, smelled it, put it back. They had all worn rosemary on the day of Robert Lockyer’s funeral. The rest had lost theirs at some point or another in the weeks since, and had switched to the sea-green ribbons that were the other marker of their cause, harder to lose and more noticeable, to boot. Feuilly kept his rosemary, though the flowers had wilted away. 

“Major White has sworn on his life that Fairfax and Cromwell will not attack,” Enjolras said, his voice low. “Not before we have delivered our demands.”

“And you trust the word of Major White?” Combeferre asked with a wry smile.

“He swears he will stand between us and their gunfire, should they attack,” Feuilly put in.

“More than that, they are a day’s march away yet,” Bahorel said. “We will be in Banbury by then, and two thousand strong. White may lie, but he cannot lie away the countryside. Cromwell and Fairfax must march, just as we did.” 

“Though I think they have never before held accord in anything, I think we must take the example of Prouvaire and Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said. “We must rest. A watch is posted– there’s nothing more to do until the morning.” 

Reluctant, cold, and damp, they settled in to sleep. They had slept in worse places; they would sleep in worse still if it would win them what they fought for: the right to make the laws that ruled them; the right to guide the country their guns and their blood had built. 

Joly sneezed thrice, then laid back down with a sniffling groan. Lesgle tugged him closer. 

Prouvaire sat up abruptly, Courfeyrac pulled him back down.

“I just thought of– I should write it down–”

“Too dark to write, do it in the morning.”

(And near midnight they were woken by the sounds of the attack.)


	30. lesgle visits joly

“Well, this is all disgustingly idyllic,” Lesgle said. 

The sun was setting with a perfect golden glow. They were sitting underneath a tree in perfectly dappled shade, smoking. Joly’s older brothers’ dogs had immediately forsaken all former loyalties upon meeting Lesgle and were curled up at his sides, one resting its head on his right knee, the other on his left.

“Oh, is it?” Joly asked. “I thought you despised the sun, disdained the south, preferred the muck of the Seine to the sands of the Mediterranean, et cetera?” 

“I did indeed say those things,” Lesgle said. One of the dogs whined: he had become inattentive in his ear-stroking. “But that was only when I thought you weren’t going to ask me to come.”

“Well, you went on about it so much, I nearly didn’t ask you.”

“How disappointing. I would have thought you could see through me better than that.”

“Well, I did wonder–” Joly began, but broke off, suddenly overcome with the urgent need at that very instant to attend to his pipe.

“Wonder what?” And when Joly still did not speak, Lesgle went on, “You cannot think I would not want to meet Maman and Papa Joly, to whom I have helped compose so many less-than-truthful letters?”

“I just worried it might be strange,” Joly admitted at last. “Not having you here, of course, but– I don’t know, it’s silly.”

“And I cannot countenance silliness,” Lesgle agreed. “I demand continual profundity and sincerity.” 

To demonstrate this, he lifted up both of the left-hand hounddog’s ears and gently flapped them like droopy, furry wings. 

“I worried it might be indelicate,” Joly said. “That I have– all this. My brothers, my parents, our land. And…”

“And I don’t,” Lesgle concluded once it became clear that Joly would not. “That’s quite true. My miserable lot, unfortunate bastard that I am, is to just have you.” 

(Joly attended once more to his pipe, this time to hide his smile.)


	31. irma alone

Irma’s beauty is pristine: red lips and blue eyes and black lashes painted on porcelain, hair like gold that falls by nature into little ringlets far prettier than any that can be contrived by rag or iron. When she prepared to leave home for Paris, she heard an old matron shake her head and say, ‘a girl who looks like that will come to no good in the city.’

The consensus amongst the students and roués of Paris is that Irma is somebody’s mistress, just no one knows whose. The other grisettes don’t know, or perhaps they just won’t say (this is an enduring mystery, what grisettes do and do not tell one another). It seems entirely possible it is someone very rich or very famous, whose reputation could not stand the public knowledge of a mistress– perhaps a priest.

“What kind of woman would sleep with a priest?” Irma asks scornfully. 

“All those old Italian popes had children, someone must have helped make them,” Musichetta (who has no reason to revere priests in particular) says. 

“Well, it wasn’t me,” Irma replies. 

*

Irma’s flat is very small and very tidy; she does not share it, and the landlady hates her. She gives Irma dark looks whenever she passes (perhaps she has heard the rumor about the priest, too?), and does not seem to notice that Irma comes home every night, and comes home alone. 

*

Irma’s cold, still beauty is not improved by the exertion of dancing– in contrast, say, to someone like Musichetta, who grows prettier and prettier as she becomes flushed and disheveled; disarray suits her. But Irma does love to dance, and never lacks a partner, though it is known to be a mark of great favor to succeed in making her laugh.

“You look so serious when you dance,” he says, the student with whom she was dancing, a fair-haired law student called Paquet. “You needn’t think about the steps, I will lead you.”

“And if you lead me astray?” Irma asks. 

Paquet grins. “Why, I could do that, too.” 

“And trample all over one another’s feet? I work for a cobbler, I beg you to have a better care of your shoes.” 

“Why, suppose I did ruin them– would that not be an excuse to see you?” 

He reaches for her hand; she twitches it out of reach so quickly, so subtly, it seems it might have been by accident. 

*

Some people say she is Grantaire’s mistress, but is simply too proud to admit it. 

*

Just outside her building one evening she is nearly upended by a creature streaking across the street just in front of her. At first she thinks it a large rat and yanks her skirts up out of the way– but then she sees (for the creature has encountered only unbroken wall where it seems to have expected another alleyway, and so huddles against the base of a streetlamp) a very, very small cat. Its true color is indistinct, as it is mostly the color of dirt. Their eyes meet. She considers approaching– she then considers the look her landlady will give her. She continues inside. 

She leaves a dish of milk (a small one, she is not wasteful) on the windowsill. 

This begins a courtship that lasts nearly a week. She has seen her friends draw them out even longer, and she wonders how men have the patience to endure it. She is ready to give up– she is wasting milk on an ungrateful beast who drinks it and still flees at the sight of her, not to mention she thinks she is coming down with a cold from leaving the window open– when she looks up before bed one night to find the very small cat perched just inside the windowsill. 

She moves very slowly towards it, but this time, it does not flee. She slides the window shut. It stares at her. She holds out a hand. It tentatively approaches. It leaves dirty little paw-prints along the sill.

“Well, you won’t like what’s coming,” she says. 

When the cat is cleaned (and has demonstrated the sharpness of its little claws), it is particolored in a strange, patchy way that isn’t quite pretty. It stretches itself out on the bed and, as Irma strokes its back, gives off the distinct impression that it is deigning to allow her to do so. 

“It is not that you need anyone, that is clear,” Irma says. The cat is purring. “But it can be nice.” 

*

“And whose is this?” Musichetta asks, plucking a long reddish hair off of Irma’s skirt. 

“Why, the priest’s, of course,” Irma replies.


	32. bossuet is not the oldest

Their contact was late. Though Enjolras was skeptical, Bahorel and Lesgle insisted that they had to order a bottle of wine while they waited– it would look strange otherwise.

The man they were to meet arrived shortly after the wine did, a cheerful-looking fellow perhaps a bit older than Bahorel. He spied their table, the florid (and floral) waistcoat of Bahorel’s by which he had been instructed to identify them, and ambled over. He pulled out the seat they’d left empty, sat down, and turned at once, hand extended, to– Lesgle. Lesgle looked momentarily surprised at this development, but took the offered hand amiably. 

“Splendid to be meeting you at last,” the man said. “Your group has done good work, from all I’ve been told. I’m Allard.”

“Er, yes, thank you,” Lesgle said. “I’m Lesgle–”

“L’Aigle! You’re sure you’re not a Bonapartist?” Allard grinned. 

“Not last I checked,” Lesgle said cheerfully. “But this is Bahorel, and may I introduce Enjolras–” 

“Pleasure,” Allard said, giving them both a perfunctory nod before turning right back to Lesgle. 

His conviction that Lesgle was in charge was one that nothing, apparently, could shake, and Lesgle was forced to take the lead in the discussion because whenever Enjolras spoke (Bahorel’s energies, Lesgle was quite sure, were wholly taken up with trying not to laugh), Allard just looked to Lesgle for confirmation and forced him to more or less repeat whatever Enjolras had just said. Near the end of the meeting, the reason for this at last became clear. 

“They told me, you know, that your principles were all quite young,” Allard said, leaning back in his chair, the universal signal that they could now turn from business to wine and gossip. “I admit I’m relieved to find it otherwise. Don’t take me wrong,” he added, glancing towards Enjolras, “I think it’s splendid to get young fellows in early– you seem to have made a right quick start, I was halfway through law school before I learned what was what. But–” He turned his grin back to Lesgle. “More experienced heads, you know.”

Lesgle practically choked. He felt his entire life of straight-faced sarcasm had perhaps been preparing him for this moment, with Allard grinning before him and Enjolras and Bahorel fuming at either side. He raised his glass and said, “Oh, I entirely agree. A bit of youthful energy– well, we need that, but it must be directed by the older. The wiser.” Bahorel kicked him under the table. “The more mature. That’s why I bring these two along, so they can begin to learn, you understand. From my experience.” 

“A good idea,” Allard said, nodding thoughtfully and looking once again to Enjolras and Bahorel. They both looked ready to burst at any moment with protestations, but seemed to have decided that it had gone much too far to attempt to correct Allard now. Fortunately for them, at that, Allard gave a final cheerful nod, pushed out his chair, and stood. The other three stood as well, and Allard offered his hand to Lesgle once again. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said. “We’ll been speaking again, no doubt. You’ve all done good work, good work indeed. And you two! Very nice to meet you as well. The best of luck to you. Well, to all of us, eh?” 

And he left. Lesgle turned to Bahorel and Enjolras with a grin and said, “If you’re going to beat me, Bahorel, perhaps outside?”

“Not at all,” Bahorel said, folding his arms over his chest. “You’ve made your own punishment. You will have to be the one to keep meeting with the idiot.”


	33. j/b/m summery fluff

It was funny, in a way, how the summer went on. It seemed only fair, having fought, having failed, that things should somehow reset themselves, that they should jump into the autumn, which by that schoolboys’ reckoning embedded in their minds and memories still felt like the beginning of a new year. The new king was sworn in, the heat did not abate, the summer continued.

“You know I’m very grateful that you’re both alive,” Musichetta said, draped across Joly’s sofa, idly fanning herself. “But if you don’t both stop complaining about the heat, I will begin to reconsider that position.”

“I’m not complaining,” Joly pointed out, which was true. He did far better in the heat than in the cold; Lesgle, on the other hand, tended to turn pink all over and even more sarcastic. 

“I’m not complaining,” Lesgle said. “I’m merely reflecting on the fact that the bitterness of defeat makes this summer feel particularly interminable. I am on the brink of scraping together some money to reenroll in the law school, so that dread of things to come will make them come sooner.” 

“I do love autumn,” Musichetta said thoughtfully. “Would this principle apply just to you, or to all of us?” 

(Joly happened to think that Musichetta looked most beautiful in the winter– when her pale complexion was made just a bit pink in the cheeks and nose by the cold– not flushed with heat as it was now, but a slightly different kind of wind-stung redness.) 

“A keen philosophical point, my dear,” Lesgle said. He was sitting, rather less elegantly than Musichetta, balanced on the windowsill, trying to make the most of the faint, hot breeze coming through it. “In fact, I believe if you were to look with anticipation to the day when, at last, we will be out of your way for hours at a time, unable to pester you with our complaints about the weather, it would make the days pass even more slowly.”

“God forbid,” she said. Joly, seated on the floor with his back braced against the couch, flopped his head against Musichetta’s hand and she began to idly play with his hair. Thus encouraged, he tried to climb up beside her, and she immediately pushed him back off (this had happened several times before) with a moan of, “Too hot.”

“I might start to complain about the heat, if this is the result,” he muttered. She worked her fingers into his hair again and he thought that maybe, perhaps, he could in fact be content.


	34. joly/bossuet fluff

The problem with Joly, Lesgle thought– the really big problem with Joly was that his hands were always, always absolutely no matter what freezing cold. It was frankly unnatural, but here it was, occurring in nature, occurring in the very hand that brushed accidentally– presumably accidentally– against his ear and woke him with a jolt out of a nap he had not been entirely intending to take. 

“Sorry,” Joly said, and Lesgle could hear the wince in his voice though he could not see the expression on his face because he could not be entirely bothered to open his eyes. Finally he gave in and opened one, just a crack, and saw that the pages he’d fallen asleep translating had been taken away– presumably during the course of which, Joly’s cold fingers had grazed against him. 

“You’re back,” he mumbled. The sun through the window was shining directly on him; he felt distinctly like a cat. He stretched and resettled himself– he’d been writing propped up on his elbows, laying on his stomach (small wonder he’d fallen asleep, he hoped he hadn’t spilled ink all over the bed), and now, instead, he rolled over onto his side. He heard two dull thuds from somewhere behind him– oh, shoes, he thought– and then the bed dipped and creaked and Joly was curled up behind him, his forehead nestled against Lesgle’s shoulder.

“You’re all dusty,” he said; he could smell it in Joly’s hair, the scent of the road, of horses, of travel. He must have left early, Lesgle thought, to be home already.

“You’re all inky,” Joly replied. “I’m exhausted.”

“Shut up,” Lesgle said. “I’m trying to sleep.”

And upon further reflection, he thought– he half-thought, half-dreamed, as they fell asleep and performed their habitual equal-but-opposite responses, Lesgle curling in tighter on himself and Joly flinging his long limbs wide, one hand coming to rest on Lesgle, just where his shoulder met his neck– he thought in the sun, in the afternoon, in the Parisian summer, those cold hands were just what a fellow needed.


	35. jonathan strange AU

Of course they learn magic in the convent. 

Not officially, of course. But it’s one of the things they whisper to each other, casting spells after curfew and quietly under the table at meals. It is some time before Cosette learns of it– they don’t know what to make of her, the ugly, awkward girl, the gardener’s daughter. Later one of the girls explains that they didn’t tell her about it at first because they weren’t sure if she could be trusted not to tell her father. She admits that, before she actually had a secret to keep, she wouldn’t have been sure, either. 

When her father takes her away to the house in Rue Plumet, she is unconcerned. She and her friends from the convent charm birds and butterflies to pass messages (the butterflies are much trickier and far more unreliable, but the birds are louder and thus less discreet). Cosette spends her days in the garden, catching them and laughing at the latest stories about what Mademoiselle Such-and-Such said to Sister So-and-So. 

Her father takes her daily to the Luxembourg, which is bigger than her garden and tidier, and the magic it whispers to her is far softer and far less interesting than that which grows with the flowers in Rue Plumet. But sometimes the birds and breeze there have interesting things to offer: one day a young man passes by, a dark-haired boy in a shabby coat, trailing a few paces behind a knot of laughing students. He glances idly in Cosette’s direction; his eyes rest on her for a moment before flicking away. A wisp of cloud drifts past, an idle suggestion. Cosette holds back a smile and took it– she murmurs the spell under her breath, makee a small gesture with her hands, buried in the folds of her skirt. 

Quite unexpectedly (though not to Cosette), a sudden stiff breeze dashes the young man’s hat from off his head. It falls to the ground and skids to a stop right before Cosette’s feet. She bends and picks it up and holds it out to the young man as he stumbles over in chase of it. His eyes, big and dark, meet hers as he took it.

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” he murmurs, lowering his eyes. She smiles (look up, look up again, she thinks) and replies, “You are welcome, monsieur.”

“Marius!” one of the laughing students calls. The young man glances over his shoulder towards them, then looks back to Cosette and sketches an awkward bow and runs off in pursuit, his hat tucked under his arm. 

“Careless,” her father murmurs. 

“Oh, yes,” she says, and smiles.


	36. marius and courfeyrac

When Marius got home, Courfeyrac was waiting outside the door, leaning against the wall beside the door in a languid tangle of overlong limbs.

“Oh,” Marius said, surprised. 

“I do know where you live,” Courfeyrac pointed out. Marius ducked his head, embarrassed, and nodded. 

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I just thought– I don’t know. I– come in, if you’d like.” 

He held open the door and Courfeyrac sauntered in and tossed his hat onto Marius’s bed. Marius watched him in nervous expectation, plainly wanting to ask something he was too timid to actually say. So instead, eventually, Courfeyrac said, “Combeferre has made us all feel that way at one time or another. You mustn’t take it personally.”

Marius flushed. “Thank you. I will not.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “I hope you do not think–” 

“Think what,” Marius said, too quickly. 

“–that that was some kind of test. That I brought you to meet my friends in hopes of seeing you embarrassed. I hope you do not think that of me!” he went on when Marius did not answer. “I cannot imagine the kind of man who would do something like that.”

My grandfather, Marius did not say. He did say, “No. I do not– I do not think that was your intent. Though I understand…”

“Understand what?” 

Marius shrugged. “If you… that is, our views…” He gestured vaguely, as if even he was not sure what he meant to say. At last he settled on: “It seems I am not really of the right persuasion to make one among your friends.” 

Courfeyrac looked genuinely startled, then broke into his usual half-teasing grin. “Really, Marius, the most shocking development of the day is to discover how low your estimation of my character really is. You think I cannot countenance having a friend whose opinions differ from mine? If you cannot tolerate my politics, then I understand and will leave you at once. But I make no quarrel with your opinions at all. I did not befriend you to indoctrinate you. I befriended you to– well, to be your friend.”

Marius looked away and said nothing– could not speak. Courfeyrac laughed and clapped him on the back, tugged him close so their shoulders bumped together (or would have done if Courfeyrac’s shoulder were not significantly higher than Marius’s). 

“I will call on you tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve been promising to dine with Bossuet for a week now, and you will join us.”

He scooped his hat up off the bed, tipped it at Marius, and was gone. Marius sunk down on the bed with an unvoluntary sigh that seemed to him to be of relief. Not, he realized, relief that Courfeyrac was gone– but that he had come.


	37. after the revolution

“I’ve given it a great deal of thought,” Courfeyrac said as he slid into a seat at the table Enjolras and Combeferre shared. “And I have decided that when we singlehandedly successfully establish the new French Republic, you, Enjolras, will be its head.”

Combeferre snorted, and Enjolras just said, “Oh, will I.” 

“And how do you imagine that will come about?” Combeferre asked.

“Quite simply,” Courfeyrac replied. “The people will hear one stirring speech– take one look at that resplendent aspect– and any other choice will naturally pale in comparison. Besides, just as the Americans chose Washington for their first president, once we have ushered in a new era, it will seem only right for our leader to become the country’s leader.”

“Ah, yes,” Combeferre said. If one could be said to adjust one’s spectacles sarcastically, Combeferre was achieving this feat. “I forgot that we would be winning the republic unaided. In that case, yes, I entirely agree. Enjolras?” 

“Yes, if you insist,” Enjolras said. “As long as I am freely elected, I will not refuse, of course.” 

“Bahorel and Bossuet will see to the bribes,” Courfeyrac said in a stage whisper, leaning close to Combeferre, who laughed. 

“And what will your first act in office be?” Combeferre asked. “Exiling the bishops? Restoring the revolutionary calendar?” 

Enjolras considered for several moments, then declared, “That all government business will be conducted in Provençal.”

Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre with a wide grin and said (perhaps, it is true, allowing his accent to come through more strongly than was his wont), “You will have to start studying.” 

“It’s true, your facility with Provençal is legendary, Courfeyrac. Remind me, what words do you know that are not the names of foods?” 

“Now, now, I must not have my counsellors argue,” Enjolras said loftily. 

“You see, the power has gone straight to his head,” Combeferre said, shaking his own with a sigh. 

“I begin to suspect this has been his plan all along,” Courfeyrac cried. “He will the the next Napoleon. He will claim an empire.”

“Yes, you’ve seen right through me,” Enjolras said mildly. “Aid in my plans and I will make you the kings of small countries. The first step must be coming with me to meet the Polytechnicians on their next day off.” 

“Ah, see, building an army already,” Courfeyrac said with an expression of mock wonder. “I knew we picked a clever leader.”


	38. courfeyrac goes to bed early

“It just hardly seems fair– you know, to refuse to continue serving a man just because he looks like he cannot pay. In my case, appearances are entirely accurate, but in your case, though you flatter me by imitating my impeccable yet unique fashion sense, in fact… You see, this is why abandoning your particle was a great mistake– do you remember where you left it? Perhaps we can retrieve it and go back and brandish it in that host’s face.” 

Courfeyrac patted down his pockets. “Alas, I believe in forgot it in Provence. And you know I live to defy expectations, but in this case, unfortunately, the expectations must be yours– the latest dispatch from Papa de Courfeyrac has not yet arrived, so the money spent on that last bottle of wine was my last.” 

“Oh.” Bossuet did not seem at all troubled by this news. “Well, onto abusing our credit, then. You remember that place– the name escapes me at present– it’s near the Sorbonne–” 

“No, no,” Courfeyrac said, stuffing his hands into his empty pockets. “Or rather, you go on, but I’m for home, I think.”

“What? Really?” Bossuet threw his arms out wide. “The night has only just begun, my friend! Why, there is time to make so many poor decisions before dawn.” 

“Well, you see…” Courfeyrac glanced around, as if afraid of being overheard. “You know me, Bossuet. You know I am a scrupulous man, you know I take pains to be precise.” 

“…well, I know now, apparently.” 

“So you see, I have been keeping a time table of Marius Pontmercy’s arrivals. You may picture the scene: the dead of night. Enter Marius, clad all in black. The first time he came, I was sure it was some sort of ghost, I thought perhaps I would be forced to invite Jean Prouvaire over and allow him to attempt to speak with it. But it was only Marius. So now, I am making a careful record of his arrival, so when the time comes for me to tease him, I need not guess, I need not fabricate, I need not surmise– I may say: Marius Pontmercy, these are the facts.” 

Bossuet took all of this in with a somber expression, nodding his head in agreement. “You are a careful and a devoted friend, Courfeyrac. I hope one day I may have the honor of being mocked with such precision.” 

Thus, with an embrace, they parted, Bossuet towards the Sorbonne and Courfeyrac back across the river to the rue de la Verrerie. As he walked he yawned, he stretched his arms up over his head, he ran his hands through his hair. When he arrived he loped up the steps and found that Marius was, as expected, not yet in. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t plan to mock Marius’s evening escapades eventually– he had every intention of doing so, of course. But after a long day at Enjolras’s side, a few glasses of wine, an evening of parrying Bossuet’s puns… well, being home early enough to tease Marius was really just a bonus to actually getting some sleep.


	39. shabby courfeyrac

Here is what Courfeyrac is good for: –well, yes he’s good for a lot of things of course, not least always being willing to buy the next bottle of wine, always being willing to lend an ear or a spare mattress, always being willing, just generally, to be there– 

But the specific thing Courfeyrac is particularly good for, given their interests, their dubiously legal political activities, is the ease with which he can talk to pretty much anyone combined with the ease with which he blends in. Because Bossuet can also talk to just about anyone, of course, but a young man who is quite bald, a young man who is quite bald with a coat that looks set to fall to pieces at any moment, is a young man that you easily remember. To describe Bossuet is easy. To describe Bahorel and Joly is easy– for what would the point of fashionable dress be if no one noticed it? To describe Jean Prouvaire and his outlandish outfits, Enjolras and his otherworldly beauty– and for Combeferre, “the one with the big red beard” can usually narrow things down very quickly.

So what Feuilly does amongst workers, Courfeyrac does amongst students: talks, listens, is not the sort of person that, after meeting him once, you could easily pick out of a crowd. Oh, brownish hair– dressed neither badly nor well– maybe a bit tall, but then again he always looks you right in the eye so you don’t tend to notice that– the general impression is much more of their bearing, both of them, of their friendliness, their intelligence, how easy they are to talk to and how happy they are to listen. Oh, and the radical politics. When something must be done carefully and casually, with friends whose loyalties are uncertain, they are the ones to do it. 

“It’s a funny sort of way to be useful,” Courfeyrac mused one evening, when they had completed their respective errands and met up once again. 

“I think it’s a compliment,” Feuilly says. “It means you– we– are people to listen to rather than look at.” 

Courfeyrac grins. “I do like that.” 

And Feuilly nods, smiling too (though Courfeyrac knows that for him it is different, it means something different)– and Courfeyrac slings his arm around Feuilly’s shoulders and off they go into the evening, two men of little note.


	40. joly and bossuet attempt to be Romantic

“Do you want a skull?” Joly asked one evening.

“Um,” Bossuet replied. “I believe I already have one. I keep it in my head. And despite many promises to do so, no one has knocked it out yet.”

“No, no, I mean a decorative one,” Joly said. 

“–um,” Bossuet replied.

Joly sighed. “Today at the cafe– where were you, by the way?– Prouvaire and Bahorel were going on and on about– I don’t really know, I was supposedly listening to Combeferre talk about the dictionary, so I could only half listen, but– skulls were definitely a prominent feature. Owning them, it seemed. I got the impression it’s quite the fashionable thing now.” 

“For poets, perhaps,” Bossuet agreed. “I think to display a skull in your flat would create the unfortunate suggestion that you’d brought it home from school.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Joly said cheerfully. “I’d be equally concerned about the provenance of any skull I saw in Bahorel’s possession. He seems very much like a man capable of grave-robbing.”

“What does one actually do with the skull? It just… sits there? A perpetual memento mori? Forgive me for suggesting that that is perhaps the last thing that you of all people need.”

“You’re right, of course,” Joly said, sighing again, this time with a faint air of disappointment. “We simply lack the proper poetic temperament, I suppose.” 

“We are not meant to follow the fashions,” Bossuet agreed. “You will find your own suitably morbid way to decorate. I have complete faith.”


	41. joly and musichetta meet

“Right then,” Bahorel said. “This has veered into tragedy. Come on.” 

He stood and, against his faint protestations, hoisted Joly up to his feet as well. The girl in question– The Girl for whom Joly had been pining for– not weeks, surely that was an exaggeration– was one half of a pair tonight, ever on the arm of another young lady, fair-haired and dimpled and seemingly always laughing. Bahorel made for her, Joly trailing behind in a state of mingled relief and agony. 

“What do they call you?” Bahorel said, sidling up alongside the duo. The laughing friend turned to them and, well, laughed.

“Surely you mean, what do I call myself?” 

“Do you have much cause for that?” Bahorel asked. “I find it’s always others who are shouting my name.” 

Her eyes flicked over him, her expression still sweet. “Oh, shouting? Really? Hmm, well. In that case– as it’s for your use– what would you call me?”

Bahorel considered this– but not for very long. Joly couldn’t help but wonder if he had several names to hand, just for this purpose. At last he said, with only the faintest air of an actual question, “How about Medora.” 

“Oh, I haven’t read much Byron.”

Bahorel grinned. “But you know it’s from Byron.”

Joly was suddenly aware that her friend– The Girl– was staring at him. Well, not staring, which seemed to Joly to imply the wrong kind of wonder or fascination. She seemed, rather, to be waiting. Her eyes were dark, so dark, black-dark, he couldn’t tell if they were brown or grey or blue. And she was waiting for him to speak. All appropriate subjects deserted Joly’s mind. Suddenly, the only things that existed in the world as far as he was concerned were the graphic details of that morning’s cadaver, how many cartridges he had helped Courfeyrac find safe hiding-places for, and would you like to come home with me, my friend will be there but he won’t mind.

“I’m not very good at puns,” he said. He was uncertain, even after he’d said it, as to how he had arrived at this comment, but he suspected that in some abstract way Bossuet, or at least the thought of him, was to blame. 

The girl, to her credit, looked like she’d heard worse. “That’s probably for the best,” she said. “As for what you’ll be shouting…” She offered her hand, small and white. Joly, slightly dazed, took it. “They call me Musichetta.”


	42. grantaire, july 1830

Admittedly, in the early days of August, they did not venture out much. It was hot, a suffocating, wilting heat, and their spirits were low, and it seemed easier to go nowhere, do nothing, until one of these things changed. So that someone came knocking on their door was not itself a surprise– though the person knocking was, somewhat.

“Oh– Grantaire!” Joly said when he opened the door. Grantaire said nothing: he simply looked Joly up and down, then leaned to peer past him, to see Bossuet sprawled on the couch. Then he turned and started to go. 

“Wait!” Joly cried. “Where on earth are you going?”

“I only came to satisfy myself that you were both, in fact, still alive,” Grantaire said. “Seeing as you both are–”

“Yes, yes, point taken, and very well deserved,” Joly interrupted. He stepped aside to hold open the door. “Now come in.” 

Grantaire did. For a moment, there passed between the three of them an unheard-of phenomena in their gatherings: silence. 

“Well,” Grantaire said at last. “These past days have put me in mind of a phoenix. A great deal of fire, smoke, and noise, and in the end– the same bird as before, with a new name.” 

“Don’t,” Bossuet said, breaking in for the first time. The word almost had an edge to it, but there was something beseeching, not commanding, in the hand Bossuet held up to silence him. “Please, not now. Tomorrow, if you must– next week would be better– just– not now.”

“We shall make an appointment,” Joly jumped in. “Specifically for the purpose.” 

Bossuet started to grin. “At three in the afternoon, one week from today, Grantaire will once more have free license to mock our dashed hopes– by then, I expect, renewed– and we will once more indulge him.” 

“A week?” Grantaire said. “Is that wise? It will only give me time to think of even more devastatingly clever things to say.”

“So you threaten, but I know you better than that– you only ever work extempore.” 

“So this, I must assume, is why I have not seen you. You did not think me capable of holding my peace.”

“Well, you aren’t,” Bossuet said. “And I would know– neither am I.” 

“But it’s no excuse,” Joly said, shooting a quelling glance at Bossuet. “We should have let you know we were unharmed. To be quite honest, it was the last sort of thing on my mind these past days. I suppose I should write to my parents, they will have heard there was fighting by now…” 

“Oh, the longer you take, the less they will think of it,” Grantaire said with an airy gesture. “Dear maman and papa, it did not once occur to me that you would worry, it was all so distant from my life as a quiet, respectable student–”

“And you are the resident expert in writing lies home, I’m sure.”

“Oh, Bahorel and I have regular contests for the title. Would you like to join?” 

Joly laughed, and Bossuet gave him a nudge.

“Just go do it now, while you’re thinking of it,” he said. And perhaps his gaze did drift to Grantaire as he added, “They do care, whatever they may think of it. They deserve to know that you are well.”


	43. cosette

In books (once she has left the convent, of course) they say, her mother’s eyes, his father’s hair. 

What she does is, she leans in close after supper, she darts her eyes sideways towards him when they sit in the park, trying to find the parts of herself in his face. This is difficult: her father is a man, after all, and old. But she thinks that maybe her chin juts out like his does, maybe her mouth is as wide as his, maybe her hands are like his drawn over in miniature, the years and work all smoothed away. 

So she subtracts these parts away. And she takes what’s left and she tries to see, in the blue eyes, in the straight nose, in the angular jaw– her mother. She looks in the mirror and sees not her own face, but what she might make of her mother. 

She imagines that her mother is not dead, but lost– somewhere very far away. And Cosette would go in search of her, she would travel all over the whole earth, and at the end of the journey she would say, ‘Ah! These eyes! This nose, this neck! You are she!’ 

One day, she asks, “Did my mother have dark hair?” (For her own hair is brown, and her father’s is white.) 

Her father, as ever, says nothing. 

As with most of her fancies, in time it passes away– the bench in the garden is no longer a mountain, the leaves are now the forests of England, not Africa, her blue eyes are simply her own and not worth thinking of.


	44. lesgle meets marius

“–so I would have invited him home, but as it is, in fact, your home, that seemed to be taking things a step too far. So he went home with Courfeyrac. He seems pleasant enough.” Bossuet paused. “You look confused.”

“I am, I admit,” Joly said. “So you… you’re not– worried?” 

“About what?”

“Well, about the fact that you’ve been thrown out of law school, for example,” Joly said.

“Oh, that.” Bossuet shrugged. It was late– the tale of his encounter with M. Marius Pontmercy had provided the accompaniment to their evening preparations. At one point Bossuet had thrown his cravat for emphasis and now could not find it. “Well, no. It hardly seems likely that I’ll ever actually finish law school, so this seems like a perfectly good reason to stop trying. I admire Bahorel too much to even dream of following in his footsteps– six years of law school will have to suffice for me.” 

Joly laughed, though the sound seemed to sneak its way out against his will. “Really, though… what will you do now?”

“It’s hardly as if school consumed a great deal of my time in the first place,” Bossuet said. “I shall keep on as I have, I suppose. What else can one do?” 

“Surely– a plan of some kind–” 

Bossuet laughed. “It is on this point that I fear we will never agree, mon joli. I take from these events precisely the opposite moral. I have tried for many years now– in a vague way, I admit– to look to the future. Today, I surrender even this. I leave myself open to fate. Let the ill winds of my fortune blow me where they will. I embrace them, I will not resist them.”

Joly sighed. “Well. At least I can be sure you will always have a roof over your head.“

“You see! Friends, at least, I have never lacked for. I am certain that someday in the future, I will count Monsieur Marius Pontmercy’s friendship worth the exchange.”


	45. shabby courfeyrac 2

After the third time Marius sent word declining his invitation to come out, Courfeyrac was growing suspicious. True, Marius was a shy, solitary sort, but this was getting entirely ridiculous. He turned up at Marius’s door bearing bread and wine and found a very startled Marius, looking shabbier than ever, hunched over a set of translations. 

“And where have you been, sir,” Courfeyrac demanded. “One would almost think you dislike my company– but surely that cannot be true.”

Marius blushed and stammered, “No, no, it’s not– not true at all, you know that, I– that is, I have a great deal to do, but–” 

“But nothing, if you want to be a monk, enter a seminary. You must spend time with your friends. And I speak, in particular, of myself. Come out with me now, leave those for tomorrow.”

“Well, you see, I– can’t.” 

Courfeyrac laughed. “And why not?” 

“I have no coat,” he said, gesturing feebly to the rather tattered-looking garment discarded near his bed. “The elbows have worn through and the tailor said there’s nothing more to be done with them.”

Courfeyrac stared for a moment. In almost anyone else, he would take it as a comically elaborate way of saying “get the hell out,” but he had seen Marius’s coat and, more importantly, experienced Marius’s excessive thrift. With loud but ineffective protests from Marius, Courfeyrac bundled his fellow student into his own greatcoat (which was entirely too long and flapped comically over his hands and around his ankles) and escorted Marius to his own flat, where he immediately commenced digging through a chest he kept at the foot of his own bed. 

“Ah!” he cried at last, in triumph. Marius, who had taken off the greatcoat, was lingering near the door, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Really, this is not–” 

“Hush,” Courfeyrac presented. He gave the coat in his hands a sharp shake– it was rather wrinkled– and offered it to Marius. “Take it. Please.” 

Marius looked with confusion at the coat in his hands– a well-cut, glass green with a full skirt and a sharply-tucked waist– and then back to Courfeyrac, grinning in a slightly-faded waistcoat and jacket whose sleeves had been– admittedly expertly– let out. Even someone with Marius’s feeble grasp of dress could see the distinct difference between the two. 

“This is yours?” he asked in some disbelief. “I’ve never seen you wear it. Or anything like it.”

“Oh, well.” Courfeyrac looked slightly abashed. “When I first arrived in Paris, I had rather– different ideas about dressing oneself than I do now. The clothes make the man, you know. And I hadn’t yet decided what kind of man I wanted to be. But the coat is yours– don’t you dare speak of debt– I have no use for it, you would be doing me a favor. It will only go to waste otherwise. It’s a little worn, but perfectly serviceable, I assure you.” 

“Really– Courfeyrac, are you entirely sure–?”

“Entirely,” Courfeyrac said. “If for no other reason than because you now have no excuse not to come out with me. I will play upon your guilt if I must, Marius Pontmercy. I am not above this.” 

And his repayment– far rarer than money– was seeing a faint, quick glimpse of Marius’s smile.


	46. gingerbeard

The look Combeferre cast on Courfeyrac’s basin and razor could best be described– perhaps could only be described– as dubious. 

Entirely misinterpreting the nature of Combeferre’s uncertainty, Courfeyrac said, “I know, I know. It’s for a proper barber to do. But I decided that persuading you to actually part with money to have someone trim your beard was beyond even my skills of persuasion.” 

“Why do I have to trim my beard at all?” Combeferre asked. He pulled down his spectacles, which had been shoved up into his cloud of red curls, and gave the razor an appraising look. “Do I trust you to put that to my throat?”

“Not your throat,” Courfeyrac said with a long-suffering sigh. “Your face. A beard is all well and good, but this is not a beard.” He gestured to Combeferre’s cheeks. “This is the traveling accessory of an Irish vagrant.”

“At risk of sounding plaintive,” Combeferre said, sounding anything but, “Why me?“

“Because you are so close, my friend!” Courfeyrac cries. “Your hair curls naturally, do you understand what some men would do for that? Oh, what heights we can achieve with it! And you are not like Joly or Prouvaire or– worst of all– Marius, for whom a beard or even a moustache must remain only a faint dream of future manhood– you have it, it is grown, we need only– arrange it.” 

Combeferre looked at Courfeyrac levelly for a moment or two, just long enough that Courfeyrac began hope that perhaps, just for fun, for the sake of experiment– 

Combeferre turned back to his book. “No.”


	47. literal entrance music

The table was littered with– well, various things. Money, cards, bottles, tallies of debts for those (Lesgle) who had run out of money. Courfeyrac was keeping his cards quite literally close to his chest: he tilted his chair back on two legs as he inspected them, while Grantaire leaned in close, his elbows planted amongst the debris on the table, cards just inches from his crooked nose. Bahorel had flipped his chair around and was straddling it backwards, his hands and cards resting on the top rail. 

“Well, one of you has to do something,” said Lesgle, who had already dropped out. All three simultaneously shushed him. But then, abruptly, Bahorel’s head snapped up. 

“Wait,” he said. “Do you hear that.” 

Courfeyrac nearly toppled backwards, and Lesgle lunged forwards to try and sweep some of the mess off the table. 

“Damn, damn, damn– we told him we’d work on that pamphlet–” Courfeyrac cried as he righted himself and began helping Lesgle’s efforts. The sound from down the corridor was tinny yet, and faint– but it was plainly drawing closer, until at last the door burst open to the crisp, clear sound of trumpets, and Enjolras and Combeferre framed in the doorway. Grantaire and Bahorel were the picture of nonchalance, but Courfeyrac and Lesgle’s guilty expressions– not to mention the pile directly underneath the table– left little to confess, though they were certainly at odds with the triumphant strains which accompanied Enjolras’s entrance. 

(“Every time,” Courfeyrac groaned later. “Why can’t his fanfare have some damn drums so that we can really hear him coming?”)


	48. jehan joins the group

Where Bahorel picked up a small, skinny boy who continually tugged his own too-long sleeves was anyone’s guess: Bahorel just found people, sometimes. He had found most of them. 

“And how long have you been in Paris?” Joly asked Jean Prouvaire. Given the boy’s palpable nervousness, he and Combeferre had been quietly dispatched to speak with him, collectively agreed upon as the least intimidating. Both thought, and neither said, that since he had shown up in the company of Bahorel, he was likely not as easily cowed as he looked. 

“Oh, well– a good while now.” At their slightly skeptical glances– he looked rather too young to have lived anywhere a good while, he amended, “I was at Louis-le-Grand.”

“You hardly look old enough to have left!” Joly laughed. To his great surprise, the boy flushed bright red. “Oh, take no offense, I beg you! I’m terribly sorry. We tease Enjolras unceasingly for his youthful looks– but of course you could not know that. I am very sorry.” 

Combeferre, on the other hand, read something else in the blushing. He cocked his head curiously. “You have left, haven’t you?“ 

“Yes,” Prouvaire said, a little too quickly. Combeferre lifted his brows. Prouvaire flushed redder. “That is–” 

“Yes?” Combeferre prompted gently. 

“If you’re playing truant, we certainly won’t scold you,” Joly added. 

“Well, you see, I was– um, I was expelled.” He smiled shyly. “You see, it’s entirely miserable there– I love to study, but not the way they want us to do it. I was always in trouble… for being late, for not keeping my uniform tidy, everything. So I got myself expelled.”

“How?” Joly asked with wonder. He’d hated most of his teachers, too, but had never had the courage to even consider getting himself kicked out. 

“I wrote all my essays in verse. I only had a year left,” he added quickly. “I’m not a child.” 

“I am not surprised Bahorel took a liking to you,” Combeferre said. “How on earth did you meet?” 

“I was sitting in the park reading Byron, and he sat beside me and began asking my opinions,” he said. “In school, no one ever asks your opinion about anything. I hope to speak to him about it again, when I have had more time to think– I had only read it once or twice. The first thing I did once they threw me out was go and buy copies of all the poetry they banned. –I’d like to be a poet, you see,” he added shyly. “And Bahorel told me–” 

“Yes?” Combeferre prompted. 

“– about what you do,” Prouvaire said, looking uncertain if it was permissible to speak of such things out loud. “And since I’ve finally gotten out of school, it seemed high time that I learned something.”


	49. learning savate

“Possibly this is an activity better undertaken sober,” Joly suggested. 

“No,” Grantaire replied at once, and Joly offered no further argument. “Now. The English consider kicking in boxing to be unsporting. This, I believe, is a perfect demonstration of the moral failings of the English.” 

He paused for a response. Joly and Bossuet both nodded. 

“Very good. Now, I will hold my hands like so, and you will kick them.”

“Why are we doing this, again?”

“Because I know for a fact Bossuet has not set foot inside a practice school since 1823, and because you, Joly, simply have the look of someone who is incapable of defending himself. Now kick.”

Joly feebly kicked at Grantaire’s hands, cupped just below his chest. 

“That was distressingly bad. Bossuet, you next, and do it properly. Harder.”

Bossuet obligingly kicked harder. And as he was notably shorter than Joly, he also kicked lower. 

“You see, this is why we should wait until we’re sober,” Joly said. Grantaire, who had not yet regained the ability to speak, just glared. Bossuet was making a valiant effort not to laugh, but this was proving about as successful as his kicking. 

“There is no time to lose,” Grantaire protested wheezily after a few moments. 

“Yes, we could be set upon at any moment,” Bossuet agreed. “Nevermind that my coat is entirely too bad to mark me as worth robbing, and Joly carries a rather threatening-looking cane. They needn’t know he doesn’t know what to do with it.”

“Well, you’ve just provided a very convincing demonstration of one area to attack,” Joly noted dryly. Bossuet snorted. Grantaire reached for the wine. 

“Do tell us, Grantaire, why are we suddenly at greater risk than before? Have you been gambling under my name? I hope you have, you win more often than I do.” He laughed. Then a thought seemed to occur to him. Joly could see the subtle change in his expression, though when he spoke again, his tone was precisely the same as before. “And I doubt boxing would have been much deterrent to the National Guard this past July. Talk about unsporting. It would be much kinder if our former king had just let us give him and his followers a few whacks and send them on their way. Do you think the new one will be amenable?” 

“Mashed pear,” Joly said thoughtfully. “The perfect food for convalescent France.” 

“Ugh, I used to rely on the two of you for good conversation– these days, even you can’t restrain yourselves.” 

“So you had to resort to beating us,” Bossuet said solemnly. “I understand it all now. Shall we try again?” 

“No!” Joly burst out. “Or at least– not until my head is clear enough to see to it if you break something.” 

“No, I wash my hands of you,” Grantaire said. “You are hopeless, entirely. I hope you are robbed.” 

Bossuet grinned and threw his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire let out a cry and only narrowly rescued his glass from spilling. 

“We are less useless than you think, I promise,” he said. “Better defended than you imagine.” 

“A low bar to clear,” Grantaire replied. But, as the bottle was empty, he tipped some of his wine into Bossuet’s glass. Bossuet grinned and raised the glass– to toast him, to thank him, to promise him.


	50. grantaire and lesgle meet

Grantaire knows a country boy by sight. He was himself from the south once, but in his soul he is Parisian– nevermind that he has only been there a year. He sees this country boy– too-new coat, too-clean linen, sitting alone– and when the evening continues on and the country boy does not leave, is not joined by friends, Grantaire sidles over and takes a seat without asking. The boy looks up, startled, but the expression quickly melts into an only slightly uncertain smile. He shouldn’t call him a boy, really– Grantaire thinks they must be the same age, more or less, and he himself hates little more than being called boy. 

“Well?” he says. “Where are you from?” 

The boy– the man– the student, probably– rubs a hand over the top of his head. The candlelight glints off a bald spot that his artfully arranged curls do not cover as well as he seems to think they do. 

“Meaux,” he says. “I’m Lesgle.”

“You’re L’aigle de Meaux,” Grantaire says, expression blank. The minutest of pauses, then Lesgle de Meaux bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, I’m ashamed I never thought of that!” 

“Well, one has little cause to say where he’s from when he still lives there,” Grantaire says. “How long have you been in Paris?” 

“Well– what time is it?” 

That’s answer enough. Grantaire waves for bottle of wine. Lesgle looks amused.

“Is this how a man makes friends in Paris?” Lesgle asked. “And here I was, afraid of knowing no one.” 

Grantaire snorts. “Do we know each other?”

“You’ve just ordered a bottle of wine,” Lesgle points out. “We shall drink it, we shall converse– and then we shall know something of each other.” 

Grantaire regards Lesgle suspiciously. He is beginning to fear he has inadvertently cornered an optimist. 

“Unless,” Lesgle goes on, “it is the Parisian fashion to sit in stony silence, or perhaps to drink very, very quickly. I confess I will prove much more adept at the latter, but as I am new in Paris I am, of course, very willing to learn.” 

Grantaire grins. “I am a very good talker, I promise you. I cannot promise you any of it will be true.”

“Oh, that’s no trouble at all,” Lesgle says cheerfully. “I am here to study the law, after all.” 

This wins a laugh at last. The wine arrives and Grantaire pours it with a well-studied appearance of carelessness that results in not one lost drop. Lesgle raises his glass, and Grantaire follows suit. A brief pause ensues, as each waits for the other to speak.

“You started it,” Grantaire points out. 

“Yes, but you know the proper Parisian style of toasting. Besides,” he adds. “My toasts tend to become quite long winded.”

“Well. As do mine.”

“Oh, I see.” 

Another pause, as each takes in the other, measures up his challenger. Grantaire reaches in his pocket and fishes out his watch. 

“On my time. Ready…?” 

\--

Lesgle de Meaux arrives at the cafe with a letter in hand, which he slaps down on the table. “I am late because it took me several minutes to decipher who this was from.”

Grantaire shakes his head with a heavy sigh, and reaches across the table to draw the letter towards him: his own spiky hand, the slightly splotched signature: R. “I thought you were clever.” 

“I did ultimately puzzle it out,” Lesgle notes. He pulls out the chair opposite and sits down. Already he has a more urban air than the week before. He has acquired a hole in his new coat.

“What happened there?” Grantaire asks, nodding to it. 

“I caught it on a nail,” he says, reaching down and sticking a finger through to display all of the hole’s mighty width and depth. “A very precise nail. I am assured it had never troubled a soul until the day it met me, but it decided at once that it and I must be better acquainted. Rather like you. –I was surprised to hear from you,” he adds. 

“Oh?” 

“Well, allow me to amend. I was surprised you remembered enough of the latter half of our conversation to remember where I lived. I myself remember very little past the fourth bottle of wine.” He frowns. “Do I owe you money?” 

Grantaire very seriously considers pushing this advantage. “No. You do not.” 

Lesgle grins. “Oh, you are honest for a– er– what was it you do, again?”

“I’m an artist.” 

Lesgle looks surprised– he genuinely must have forgotten in the haze of wine that had subsumed the latter half of that night… and the first portion of the morning. 

“I’m not really an artist,” Grantaire amends at once. “I don’t do any work, and I’m not any good, but they haven’t kicked me out yet, so I hang around.” 

“Mm, that I do think is a lie,” Lesgle says with a grin, but as Grantaire braces himself for some kind of cloying encouragement, Lesgle says instead, “So? Why did you ask me here?”

“What do you mean, why?” Grantaire asks. “I needed someone to drink with. You have no other friends, so I knew you’d be at liberty and I wouldn’t have to bother trying to find a second choice.” 

“Ah… so we are friends now.” 

“Well– we might yet be brought to that sorry state,” Grantaire says. “But before we do, you’ll have to get much, much better at drinking.” 

“If you volunteer to fund this education, I am at your disposal.”

“You’ve been in Paris a week, how can you already lack for money? What kind of person comes to Paris to study law without money to spend?”

“The kind of person who comes to Paris because he has no money left.” 

Grantaire folds his arms. “You have no money, you cannot drink, you have missed two very low-hanging puns… what use are you?” 

Lesgle considers this. He rubs his hand over his head. “I think I am very useful. As a source of contrast, you see. Compared to me, you will always be richer, luckier, more knowledgeable about Paris, the better drinker, the better boxer– and if not the more handsome, well, I will get you closer than most.” 

In the silence that follows, Grantaire notes Lesgle’s ruddy complexion grow slightly pinker, particularly around the neck and ears, though his cheerful expression barely wavers.

“I think I shall call you Bossuet,” he says at last.

“Do you.” His expression does not change, but Grantaire can see his relief, the change in the slope of his shoulders. 

“Yes. We shall see who understands, and thus who is worth talking to.”

“An admirable idea. A test in the same vein as your signature, I take it?”

“We will be the toast of Paris. We must choose our acquaintances with care.” 

“Naturally, naturally.” Lesgle leans back in his chair, grinning. “With tests. Well, I am more relieved than ever that I passed. I expect it will be the last time I pass a test of any kind here.” 

“And even then, only barely,” Grantaire reminds him. “By the skin of your teeth. The skin of your head.” 

He runs his hand, unthinking, over his head again. “Then perhaps I should say, I am glad that you thought me worth testing.” 

And to that, Grantaire says nothing– or at least not to Lesgle. To the hostess, he calls for a bottle of wine.


	51. barricade farewells

In the calm before– before, Combeferre catches Enjolras by the arm and tugs him gently aside. 

“You spoke well,” he says.

“As did you,” Enjolras replies. 

“And Marius best of all,” Combeferre concludes with a small smile. “Who would have thought it?“

“You never wished this, I know,” Enjolras says. His voice is quiet– they both speak quietly. It is nearly dawn, and it seems wrong to raise one’s voice. Combeferre reaches out and lays his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder, squeezes it.

“I would wish nothing else. You must not think I regret anything, because I do not,” he says. “In a few hours, we shall speak better than we ever have in our lives. And that will do something.” 

Enjolras nods, short, sharp.

“I thought we might take leave of each other now,” Combeferre says. “I think it better, for the directing of the fight, if we separate. Besides which–” The smallest pause. “Besides which, I do not wish to see you fall.” 

“No,” Enjolras agrees, laying his hand over Combeferre’s. “Nor I. Let us embrace, my friend.”

They do. They part. Enjolras’s face is pale still, stern, but Combeferre smiles. 

“You know my trust in religious doctrine is skeptical, at best,” Combeferre says. “But I have never been so certain that we will meet again.”


	52. combeferre and enjolras meet

Combeferre has long fingers, slender and slightly ink-stained, though he takes care, does not (like many students) cultivate studied disarray. He is tidy, he is no dandy, he is a person easily lost in a crowd. His beliefs, his hopes for the future, one soon learns (if one seems to him a person open to learning) are quite radical. 

Courfeyrac decides to introduce Combeferre to Enjolras, though he suspects they will not get on. Courfeyrac wanders away, goes to chat with someone else so that they have time to speak, and when he looks back again they are arguing. Combeferre wears not the detached air of one defending a point for the sake of argument, as Combeferre very often does– his eyes flash, he has pushed his sleeves up and those long fingers jerk in sharp, pointed gestures. Enjolras has his arms folded across his chest, his expression at once fierce and icy. 

“Well,” Courfeyrac says lightly once he and Combeferre take their leave. “It looked as if you and Enjolras did not quite see eye-to-eye.”

Combeferre, in a tone Courfeyrac found entirely unreadable, says, “Did it?” 

The next afternoon, he and Enjolras cross paths at the law school. Courfeyrac, stinging somewhat from his failure– did he not promise to introduce friends? will not Enjolras mistrust his judgment from this time on?– thinks to avoid him, but Enjolras catches his eye, strides over and catches his sleeve. 

“You will bring that Combeferre tonight,” he says, and on most days, from Enjolras, this would sound somewhere akin to a command and Courfeyrac would laugh but obey it– but he sounds beseeching, almost, uncertain, almost. “Do you think he will come?” 

“Yes, of course,” Combeferre says at once, when Courfeyrac asked him. “I am very glad he wishes it, I wished it, too.”

“But you were arguing,” Courfeyrac said. “Not the way you argue with me– you looked angry. He looked angrier.”

“Yes,” Combeferre said, looking faintly amused. “We disagree quite profoundly on questions of progress– the form it should ideally take.”

“Well, so.”

“So– I imagine we shall become great friends.”


	53. musichetta/joly

Musichetta said she didn’t know why her last lover had called her that, how he’d come up with it, only that it stuck. But Joly suspected that it was because she sang to herself nigh constantly, very soft, sometimes (he suspected) because she thought he couldn’t hear it and other times (again, he suspected) because she did not even realize she was doing it at all. The Italianate flavor of the name he presumed came from her dark looks, her black eyes and her cloud of nearly-black hair, which could by no means be persuaded into the orderly ringlets of the current fashion no matter how they were ironed, pinned, or persuaded. So certainly, he thought, to someone who did not grow up on the Mediterranean as Joly had, perhaps Musichetta looked Italian. 

(He was too ashamed to confess that Musichetta’s Previous Lover had assumed somewhat mythic dimensions in his mind. Because they had never met, Joly felt free to assign him every bad quality: he was probably a royalist, he was probably a Breton, he probably wore pungent pomade and ostentatiously swirled his cane when he walked.)

So Musichetta sang, and she was singing that afternoon as she drifted aimlessly into the bedroom to peruse Joly’s bookshelf. Joly himself, who still harbored vague hopes of passing his upcoming exams, was pretending to read. But as soon as she came in he abandoned all effort and redoubled his pretense and listened to her sing. He wished she would sing louder. He realized that he did not recognize the language.

“Is that Alsatian?” he asked, seized with sudden boldness and the certainty that this would be his best chance. Musichetta froze, looking as if she’d been caught out doing something untoward (despite her fair complexion, he had never seen her blush). 

“It’s– a form of Alsatian, I suppose,” she said. “I– I didn’t realize I was–”

“I like it,” he said at once, then because theirs was a household in which it was not always certain, he clarified, “I’m not teasing you, I swear.” 

“Well, I hope not,” she said with mock indignation, but he could tell she was still embarrassed. He reached out a hand and she went to him and took it. He tugged her down beside him on the bed. 

“I like it,” he said again. “Are all your songs in Alsatian?”

“It’s not exactly…” She trailed off. Then she said, “No. Some are in Hebrew.”

He smiled and reached for her, twirled a stray curl of hers around his finger, then leaned in to kiss her, and only after realized that she had told him a secret.


	54. letters between joly and bossuet

Against my better judgment, find enclosed a copy of the key. I say this not because I do not trust you, but because I do not trust your luck. You will not merely lose a key: you will lose a key where it would be found by a burglar; you will lend a key, entirely good-heartedly, to a con man; you will leave the key at the scene of a crime where it will be taken for the essential piece of evidence in identifying the culprit. 

Even so, find enclosed, a copy of the key.

-j

*

My dear Joly,

I have taken the liberty of having both sides of the argument that is to ensue when you return home this evening in advance, to save time. To summarize: yes, the window is broken. Yes, it is my fault. Yes, it was an accident. Yes, it is a strange and complicated story. Yes, it is November. Yes, we will very likely freeze to death. Yes, if we do not freeze to death, we shall certainly catch pneumonia and perish from that. Yes, if I survive, I will speak feelingly at your funeral. Yes, we can certainly cover over it with paper until it can be fixed. Yes, that’s really not so bad, is it? Yes, you are right, it is not so great a disaster after all. Yes, I am ingrate for trespassing on your hospitality and breaking your things. Yes, that is wine, and yes, I suppose we had better drink it. To stave off the cold and pneumonia, you know. 

Yours in profoundest relief at our reconciliation, 

Lesgle (de Meaux)

* 

You will, I know, be surprised not to find me at home after receiving my most certain assurances that you would find me here. The reason (I confess it) is the divine Musichetta. She tells me my room is too cold– she tells me the breeze through the broken window musses her hair– she tells me we must decamp at once to her place– and I, poor servant, agree. She tells me further she will never forgive you for being the cause of this imposition unless you come to beg her pardon in person. I humbly suggest you make haste. 

-j

*

Mon joli Joly, 

Though you are a man renowned for his subtlety, I regret to inform you that I have seen through your latest ruse. If you wish, count it not as a reflection of your lack of cunning, but of my prodigious wit. Indeed, I have ever considered you a master of plans, schemes, and plots of all kinds and it pains me to think that your genius may be growing in any degree less. Let us believe instead that my years of study of your person and habits have at last borne fruit. 

I confess a small degree of curiosity, however, as to what you did with my old coat before ever-so-cunningly and silently replacing it with a new one, as in the pocket– or, in fact, not in the pocket, but slipped through the hole in the pocket into the space between the wool and lining where I very cleverly conceal it but where you may, perhaps, not have noticed it– was my key. 

*

Find enclosed a new key…


	55. bahorel in a kilt again

Combeferre straightened his spectacles, smoothed his lapels, adjusted his wig– did, in other words, everything in his power to look as respectable and tidy as possible. The effort was wasted, somewhat; they recognized him by now, and with no more than polite pleasantries they led him to the cell in question.

Bahorel was sitting with his arms folded, feet planted, legs spread defiantly to better display the pleated woolen folds. The little space of skin between the bottom of the kilt and the top of Bahorel’s riding boots (perhaps he couldn’t find more traditional footwear on this occasion? or perhaps he had actually intended to go riding?) seemed to Combeferre oddly sweet and vulnerable. The rest of Bahorel was neither of these things. 

“By the letter of the law, he should get six months,” one of the officers noted. “Really, as it’s not the first time, he should be transported. But as none of those were ever brought to court…” 

“That’s very true,” Combeferre said mildly. “You are plainly very well-informed. I have no doubt you carry out your duties admirably.” He shifted the pile of papers under his arm (the better, they had decided, to look clerkish and unthreatening) and several banknotes fell to the floor. Combeferre did not move towards them, did not even look at them. “Oh dear.” 

The officer gave Combeferre a suspicious look, then sighed and scooped up the money. “Oh, go on then.” 

“I’ll pay you back,”Bahorel said cheerfully as they strode out of the jail. He had, at length, been persuaded to put on the trousers Combeferre brought with him.

“You can pay me back by ceasing to waste your time and energy on such nonsense,” Combeferre said. “It aids nothing, to be arrested for something so trifling.” 

“There we disagree,” Bahorel said. The kilt, which he had refused to surrender, was bundled up in his arms, and the look he then cast towards it make Combeferre slightly afraid he would put it back on right there in the street. “If dear old George will take the trouble to outlaw it, then I will take the trouble to break his laws. That is reason enough for me.”


	56. lesgle falls in love

This is what happens.

Well, no. He doesn’t know what or how it happens, only that it does, or at some point did, and now is.

So this is when he knows.

It’s spring (oh, how the cliché pains him) and it has been raining but it isn’t now, so the sidewalks, the rooftops, the gutters are wet still, but the sun shines, glints off the puddles. Joly has a cold, and though the others tease him, Bossuet has listened to him snore for three days and so can attest to its reality. Joly has a cold, or at least the remnants of one, and so he juggles in one hand a handkerchief, in the other a now unnecessary umbrella, and tucked awkwardly beneath each arm, several books he has only just purchased. Bossuet cannot help but think he would be better served with the handkerchief in one hand, the umbrella in the other, and to allow Bossuet to carry the books, but he has suggested this and he has been rejected, because Bossuet has been writing all morning and his fingers, his wrists, his sleeves are liberally spattered with ink and Joly is fussy about his books, particularly new ones; he does not like when they become ink-stained, he does not like when the spines get broken. He does not (Bossuet thinks, though Joly does not say it) entirely trust Bossuet not to somehow accidentally drop them in a puddle.

“Give me the umbrella, then,” he says as the books begin to slip again. He does not wait for an answer before seizing hold of it, freeing Joly’s hand to catch hold of the books just before they fall. “There.”

“Right,” Joly says. “That makes more sense, doesn’t it. My head is not as clear as it could be.”

The feeling which Bossuet now experiences is one to which, these past months, he has become accustomed: the overwhelming desire to reach out to Joly, to touch his cheek or to brush away his hair. As ever, he does not do this. Joly must see something in his face, a flash of the wanting, because he tilts his head and offers a quizzical expression, a silent yes, what is it?

Bossuet has never asked this of himself in one of these moments. But being asked, albeit silently, he considers the answer, and realizes all at once that he knows what the it is. He both is and is not surprised by it.

He offers a bemused expression in return, a shrug– I meant nothing. And they continue on their way and it is spring now and now everything and nothing is different.


End file.
